A labor of love

I grew up 25 steps from my grandparent’s back door. I know it’s 25 steps because I would count them to stay distracted as I ran to it when it was dark to keep the tataille (scary creature) from getting me. 

One night when I was about eight, after my jolt of survival, Mamaw said it was not a good time to sleep over because she and Papaw were getting ready for one of his craft shows the next day. I asked her why she didn’t look excited about it. She said, “It’s a labor of love, cher.” I didn’t understand the phrase at the time. 

Jump several years to when I was in high school.  I had an angel assistant basketball coach. She knew nothing of the game. She was there for our coach and our spiritual support. She would always give us gum and wipe our faces with a towel. She truly would encourage us and pray the rosary during every game. I asked her why she did it and she had the same response, “It’s a labor of love, my Ellen.”

I was too into myself at the time to get it but after this past week, I got it, honey.  My labor of love is the BEACH. I have always had an affection for the beach. You know the one where you just sit, tan, drink cold drinks and eat cooler sandwiches that stick to the pallet of your mouth. 


The beach I just returned from is a different beach. This one had four sweet bebes and a bunch of other people I love too. I was excited the week before as I cooked meals to freeze, packed towels and flip-flops, bought 10 cans of sunscreen and made sure my Bluetooth radio was charged. I hustled a good book, put together a bag of supplies to make rosaries and changed all the batteries in flashlights for crab catching. 

I know all parents can pinpoint the time when the beach shifted for them. It shifted for us some time ago but this time I was intentional about trying to find the treasure in the work that is every moment on the beach with kids and other families.  This, my friend, was not an easy task even with my saint-on-earth spouse. 

The exuberant amount of snacks was gone in two days and I only remembered to bring my speaker to the beach once. The big boy’s mode of operation was “we must boogie board every wave, every second we are in the water.” Their chests were raw and chafed on the first day. By the end of the week, I was applying all the baby’s extra strength Desitin and Aquaphor three times a day in order for them to “ride a wave all the way up to the sand where it gets in my pockets.” 

The big girls were on hermit crab and shell missions, which means they float in the water face down, exposing as much body surface as possible to all the jellies. I proceeded to use lots of ointments on them too. 

The baby was 1000% determined to not get any sand on him but he 1000% loved the water. In hindsight, he may have been the easiest because he went straight to baby gorilla. He despised the sand so much that he just held on to me, and I just had to travel. He could switch to my back when I leaned over in the ice chest, and he would move to the other arm when a big wave was coming. He adapted to his needs. But the big kids … their hunger and making sure they rinsed off sand, dried off bodies and picked up after ourselves because we were sharing space drained me.  

The dishes, towels and sandy floor were in constant need. We blew up mattresses, folded blankets, made ice, packed the wagon, etc. This was most definitely labor but where was the love part?  

I was feeling especially worn out one morning while sitting in my chair on the beach when my brother said, “Ellen, your kids are drifting off quite a bit.” I sighed, got up, and instead of just screaming at them to walk over I decided to go meet them in the waves. By the time I got out there my cousin had come up behind me. My husband had also come out to where the girls were and in an instant, I was 12 years old again. 

With each giant wave that knocked me over, I came up laughing harder and harder. I looked over at my cousin and she was doing the same thing.  She was there when I was 12 years old too but now we have our kids and sweet dudes all getting beat up and dragged around in pure joy together. I lost my sunglasses and my freshly braided hair transformed into George Washington’s wig. 

We had swimsuits full of unspeakable Gulf water items but I finally fully felt the love. I was never ungrateful. I was always very aware of how blessed we were to be there but I didn’t let myself feel it. 

Although our family rosary turned into only a couple of times in the room at bedtime with two out of the four we still got them in. My dude and I were able to say the Divine Mercy Chaplet before getting up a few mornings, and I did get my Lauds and Vespers in each day so in retrospect I can see God setting up his lesson to be noticed. 

The labor was surely there but I wasn’t always open to the love until the Lord reminded me through what seemed like another task to redirect my kids was really him redirecting me.  I think now how the Lord probably thinks I am a labor of love at times and he just laughs after every wave I send hits him and he still continues to love me. 

Eldridge is a Catholic mom living in the Diocese of Baton Rouge facing the same challenges all families face.