mom as a visitor

I didn't know, when mom came to visit me, 

how weird it is to be a visitor at your own daughter’s house

to let her make the meals and get out the towels

and to not know where she keeps her forks.

and how happy a mom can be that she has found her people
and sad at the same time, that we no longer have “our” people
and how a hand that lets go has to be forced open again and again
and every time it’s a prayer of grief-gratitude
like bubbles popping, or balloons launching into the air while I watch from the ground.

I didn’t know when my mom cleaned counters or did laundry for me
It wasn’t judgment on my housekeeping
but it was a chance to love again, in the old way

and even though it’s not necessary anymore
it’s a little offering, from the old days,
a quiet “thank you for welcoming me still, into your new world.”

---
In church my heart goes out to the sheep on the ground, the one looking up at Jesus carrying the little lamb. She’s glad Jesus has her baby, of course. She’s asking, “where are you taking her? Do you need my help?”
---
I sit on the pier staring at the glimmering lake. God asks me to leave her here at this altar and is it really so hard? With the sparkling lake and the husband who loves her and her face turned up to the sunshine?  I no longer get to see and document every second of it, or to call my mom to tell her about each new milestone like I did when she was tiny.  I have other things to do now, and so does she. It is well.
---
One more glorious morning coffee date, and then the goodbye hug. I’m an amateur; I forgot to pull my sunglasses down before the tears started. All the while I’m aware that I look just like my mom, who still cries when vacation ends, and I will never apologize for that.

I stare at the lake for a little longer, with awareness of God’s presence in this place. I have a grown child who loves what is lovely, and she dwells in His house even when she’s far from me. 

Eventually I turn my face away from the lake towards home, where He has more for me, too.

---

How lovely is your dwelling place,

    O Lord of hosts!

My soul longs, yes, faints

    for the courts of the Lord;

my heart and flesh sing for joy

    to the living God.

Even the sparrow finds a home,

    and the swallow a nest for herself,

    where she may lay her young,

at your altars, O Lord of hosts,

    my King and my God.

Blessed are those who dwell in your house,

    ever singing your praise!

(Ps 84:1-4)

fired

 I’ve been fired from my job

my (self-appointed) job of running the universe.

God did it.
He found me spinning, frantic
Dousing all the fires
Taming all the rollercoasters
Trying
Trying so much
To stay ahead of it all.

“You’re fired,” he said
or maybe it was
“You’re tired.”
(I’m not sure
I wasn’t looking at his face)

I don’t remember how it went
I just remember rest, received
like a gift, like a nap
Like falling into strong arms with resignation
and relief.

“I quit.”

 my heart, in church <2wks from the wedding

Her little brother has his head in her lap, and she rubs his back

They’ve played house together for so long; 

and just as he’s outgrowing being little-brothered

she’s about to set up her own house, for real.

I stand next to her at the communion rail

feeling the acute reality of the season’s end

I lean towards her just a little; arm on arm

so i can feel the swiftly-passing closeness of her presence, 

just a little longer

Our Lord is with us. His hand on my shoulder, and His other on hers

He sees the grief of our parting; 

He sees the joys and the pains ahead;

He stands with us now, and He loves. 

“I’ll take care of her; I’ll be with her in this next part”

He says.

(To me or to her?

Both. )

another test flight...

A toddler screams, begs mom not to go, but she has to leave, to work, for the sake of the little one who cannot understand.  She prys him from her leg and makes a mad dash for the door, apologizing to everyone she sees on the way out.

“It’s ok,” I remind her, “he will be fine in about sixty seconds.” And he was. “It’s good for him to learn that he can do things even without mom around.” And it is.

My teenager-in-bloom smiles and says, “I get it, kid! Don’t let go of your mommy until you absolutely have to!”  I smile and sigh.  We are close, she and I, and thanks to our unconventional high school choice we have become even closer.  Yet, these are days of preparation for the next stage, and I want her to be able to let go, to learn and to grow without mommy around.

She’s in Florida this week with her grandparents helping out with Hurricane relief efforts.  She left before I got home from Outdoor Ed (a field trip with 5th and 6th graders.) It will be almost two full weeks of not seeing her before, Lord willing, she is home safe once again.

It’s a little letting-go, a practice for the bigger ones coming.

I remember when the girls were tiny, when our stay-at-home days opened wide before us.  They were my shadows as I learned the art of motherhood. We took many of our first steps together.  I remember huge brown eyes full of questions and wonder at the wide world around them. I remember how Lorraine would fall, and before she even cried she’d look to me to see how I reacted, to interpret her experience for her. I learned to hold in my own fear and my gasps, and to smile encouragement at her- even when I was afraid she actually hurt her sweet little knee.

I remember the courage it took me to let her sleep in the top bunk, and how we sang our bedtime prayers together. I remember her sweet little-girl voice and tiny hands imitating me as we sang goodnight to God:

Glory be to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Ghost

As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be, world without end, Amen.

How far she has come from those little-girl days, from needing me to fill her sippy cup!  How far she has come since that uncertain squawky mommy voice that led her in that song!  

Now, she is the girl whose mom still can’t even read music, and yet she can play piano and handbells and clarinet.  I remember when she played handbells, last spring, with her peers: she was just one blooming flower among many, playing her part to the glory of God, but my, how she shone.  And the complicated piece lifted my soul to heaven and spoke to me about the love and work of God.  As it ended with the familiar “Glory be to the Father,” I saw her in footy pjs singing with me, then growing so quickly into her womanly glory, and I marveled at the works of God.

God took that awkward song we sang together when she was little and he has made it richer and deeper for her; He has connected her with His church and His people, and given her a place to shine to His glory within it, and she does it with such joy!  How amazing is this God who multiplies the blessings He gives!

She is not mine, and the more beautiful she becomes the more I realize how little I have had to do with any of this. And yet, by the grace of God I have played a part. I have been given sweet days of nurturing and tending the garden where she and her siblings grow.  What better use can there be for this brain and this body, but to be poured out for their sakes?  

And so, I will continue to smile encouragement in her direction, despite my fears, and I will ask God to remove the selfish clinging and ugly sense of ownership from my mommy heart.   I pray that God will take care of her, without mommy around, and I can’t wait until she tells me exactly how He did just that.

And with the help of God I will let go, and I will celebrate with her, even when she is transplanted out of my home and my garden…

but not until I absolutely have to.

God, grow me up as you grow them up!

goodnight, five.

Tonight, I said goodnight to five for the last time.

Tomorrow, my youngest boy turns six.

Goodnight, five, and goodbye five.

I curled up next to his pajama’d body and said a nice, long, goodnight and goodbye.

Goodnight, five,and goodbye to the days of

packing a blankie and buddy for rest time at school,

and learning to tie shoes.

Goodbye to the magical moment of I-can-read;

that miracle of letters on a page making sounds that magically form a familiar word!

Goodbye to the days of first backpack and first lunchbox and first play date with a school friend.

I rubbed his back and said goodbye to five, slowly, gently.

And the goodbye-fives turned into goodbye-everything-little as I thought about our preschool days and baby days.

Goodbye bringing babies home from hospitals,

and tiny new outfits, and milk-snuggles.

Goodbye teethers and days of dumping out toys and chewing on everything.

Goodbye strollers and baby-on-the-hip;

Goodbye afternoon naps with a baby plastered to my side;

Goodbye days spent in a blur of exhaustion and goodbye just trying to keep everybody alive.

Suddenly he whispered, “are you asleep mama?” and turned over to face me. “No, honey,” I said, “not yet.”

I’m too busy saying goodbyes.

Goodbye five, and less-than-five.

God help me embrace six, and more-than-six, too.  

I hid my tears and held him close.

He turned over again and let out a little fart.

He pulled his minion blanket up over his shoulder, made sure my arm was around his waist, and sighed.  He resigned to sleep, passing gently into the next stage of his life, fearless, and at peace.

Goodnight, five.

from here.

My bare feet sink into sand, but still I run, holding tight to the little one’s back before I throw him overhead in a grand under-dog.  He clings tight to the chain, laughing loud.  His brother teases, “Grandma can push higher than you!” because he’d rather tease than ask politely for a turn. But I hear the asking in the teasing, and I push him up and over, higher than his brother.

As I recover my footing I see she is watching me-- my oldest daughter, with her big brown eyes. She, too, sits on the swing, but her feet touch the ground.  Her swing moves lazily back and forth, heavy with adolescence, but she pouts at me and begs, “Push me too mommy!”  I laugh, “I don’t know if I can do that anymore, girly!”  I grab her back and give a shove, then another, and she giggles, “wheee!” but we are both only pretending.  She barely moves.  She shakes off the act and says seriously, “I’ve got it from here, mom.”

She’s got it from here.

Not all of “it,” I think, as I watch her swing higher than the others.  

She starts sixth grade this year. She’s not done with me yet.

But I watch her swing higher than the others.  I see it: she is preparing to fly.

They all are.

My heart stretches, aches.

I push the littlest ones again, while they are still small enough, and I am young enough.

We’re getting ready to fly.

Someday, they’ll all say to me, “I’ve got it from here, mom,” and it will be true. God, help me to spend these pre-flight days wisely!  Be the anchor of our souls even as time whisks us forward!  Do not let sadness or selfishness overtake me, but help me rejoice in the growth You give.  

You’ve got them, God, from here, and from there.

And You’ve got me, too.

God, grow me up as you grow them up!

living art

We are up before seven on vacation, but nobody is complaining. Daddy and I got them up early- we are the excited children, we are the ones who couldn't wait to get down to the ocean early in the morning. We eat powdered donuts on an old sheet at low tide.

People walk the beach, looking for treasures. Perhaps they are walking slowly through memories.

Meanwhile, little boys eat quickly so they can dig, run, and tease the waves. Daddy and I linger on the old sheet, with coffee and open eyes. The ocean roars, and we sit in comfortable silence. The sea and the sky are blue with a million blues, and I am glad that I brought my watercolors.

But for now, I stay still, marveling at the living artwork made by the hand of God. I watch those precious little boy bodies playing in the surf. They scream when the waves come, and I do not tell them to be quiet. Little legs cannot seem to outrun the ocean; waves grab ankles, and a boy trips, laughing as he spits salt water.

A woman smiles at me through wrinkles, a smile rich with memories and understanding, a smile from a mother to a mother. She keeps walking. She does not tell me to seize the day, to enjoy every moment, and that they grow so quickly. I see her slow steps, her sun-spotted skin, and the slight curve of her back as she walks away. I hear the speech she did not give.

My husband hands me his glasses and runs into the water with the boys. I observe his figure and smile. Yes, I still like watching him play in the water. I remember before kids, when I had to drag him in to play with me; when he was so in love that he let me talk him into swimming in the rain. (Perhaps that old blue bikini was a factor.) Now, my boys drag him, and he flings one over his shoulder.

Fatherhood looks so good on him.

Florida is for romance: romance and babies, and I smile thinking how these things are all tangled together in this life we have been given. The blue bikini has been packed away forever, but I do not grieve. My heart, life, and figure are full. I embrace this season of fullness.*

I towel-dry sandy little boy bodies, and as we pack up, I hand them things to carry. Even the littlest will carry something, and he will insist on doing it by his “OWN self.” Our family is growing up, growing out of things, into other things.

While the boys stop to dig just one more hole, an elderly man tells us about the sea turtles, and low tide, and the best pizza place “just around the corner.” His wife hides in her book, and I wonder if we will be like that someday. I suddenly miss my grandpa.

When my arms no longer carry Mickey Mouse towels and tiny sunglasses, of what will they be full?

Perhaps I'll wear an enormous sun hat, and it will shade my workspace as I write and paint. Perhaps he will have a tan bald head, and he will be reading his 3,000th book on his Kindle. And nobody will be running after seagulls or digging for crabs. And I'll be the only one drinking from my water bottle.

Unless there are grandkids, of course.

“I found a gold doubloon!” my son yells, holding a seashell. “I'm going to use it to buy my very own motorcycle!” He hands me another piece of God's living art, and I almost try to explain how there are things of value that cannot be exchanged for motorcycles... but I just ruffle his hair instead.

“Leave the seashells at the beach, boys.” He drops the “doubloon” and grabs my hand without looking back. I let him drag me through the broken shells, through the sand, and up the stairs towards showers and naps.

I look back at the ocean, but he pulls me on.

He's right, of course.

Carrying today with me will not keep me full tomorrow.

Then, and now, fullness comes from living with hands open before God who gives. To be sure, the sun will still feel good on wrinkled skin, and sand on crooked toes. 

And perhaps, God's living art is even more beautiful through aged eyes.

*(Full disclosure: I deleted a few pictures of myself, but only the ones that were totally exaggerating.)

Just a little more time...

Oh Father, these children! Did I let them into my heart only to have them taken out again? Each year brings more letting-go. Kindergarten took three days a week. Then first grade took all of our weekdays. Then activities, friends, and camp take more and more. If this is hard for me now, what of then? What of the day when we live in different states, and get together, maybe, on holidays?

first day of kindergarten

Do you feel it mothers? Do you feel the urgency? Do you know how fleeting these moments are? And yet, even we try to pry our hands and our eyes open so that we can receive and hold as many as we can, we know the task is impossible.

Can we fill up with moments like we can food? Can we be filled, satisfied, stuffed to the point of sickness? My belly is full of moments, but I am not ready to get up from the table. I am not ready to sell the crib.

Even if we refused to blink, if we pried our eyes open and took every moment into our hearts, they would still grow. And they would stretch out their arms, and they would move away. My greedy hands want to keep them, if not forever, at least for now. I do not want them to go to summer camp. I do not want to share them with grandma, with teachers, with spouses.

But, sister in Christ, these feelings are of the old nature. Our grasping, worrying, pining- these things expose the sin tangled in our mother-love. These things are not born of trust in God. We are not seeking the good of our children when we keep them prisoners in our greedy hands, when we demand that they satisfy our needs with their presence. May God forgive us making them our gods, and for trying to be their gods.

Yet a day is coming, mothers, when even the sin that taints our love for our children will be gone. Christ’s forgiveness burns away the fog in our hearts. The Spirit strengthens our new hearts and teaches them to love with a better love. And we hear the promises of God, given to sinners, given to us.

Truly, truly I say to you, whoever hears my word and believes him who sent me has eternal life. He does not come into judgment, but has passed from death to life. John 5:24

Eternal life: think on this with me. Because of God’s grace given to us in Jesus, we have eternal life. Our stories do not start at birth and end with our physical death. God has changed our story arc. We have been freed from that awful ending. We have been given more time- eternity, even. We do not have to seize the day. We do not need to hoard moments. We can let go of their hands. The separation that we experience now--whether they go to kindergarten, grandma’s, college, or the grave-- it will seem like a mere moment, like nothing, when eternity is spread before us; when the fog has been burned away and we see all things by the light of Christ.

Father,

Forgive me for the sin that stains my mother-love. Forgive me for trying to satisfy myself in my children, and for trying to be that which satisfies them. Open my hands, that I may receive the good moments as blessings from you, and keep them open, that I may be ready and willing to share these children with the world. Lift my eyes to You, and fasten my heart to Your promises. Teach me to look forward to that day when Your Word is fufilled in my sight. Sustain me until then, Lord, for I am weak.

In Jesus’ name, Amen.

Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ! According to his great mercy, he has caused us to be born again to a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead,  to an inheritance that is imperishable, undefiled, and unfading, kept in heaven for you,  who by God's power are being guarded through faith for a salvation ready to be revealed in the last time.  In this you rejoice, though now for a little while, if necessary, you have been grieved by various trials,  so that the tested genuineness of your faith—more precious than gold that perishes though it is tested by fire—may be found to result in praise and glory and honor at the revelation of Jesus Christ.  Though you have not seen him, you love him. Though you do not now see him, you believe in him and rejoice with joy that is inexpressible and filled with glory,  obtaining the outcome of your faith, the salvation of your souls.

1 peter 1:3-9

Motherhood and letting go

My children are not mine. They are on loan to me by God. I get to care for them today, and nothing after today has been promised to me. Worse yet, I have no right to complain about this. I am not entitled to them, or anyone else I love for that matter. They are mine to love, and someday, to let go.

This weekend, I remember one very difficult letting-go.
I remember when we said goodbye, and how we didn't really know what kind of goodbye we were saying.

Would Aggie be coming home with us? The same Aggie we took? A helped Aggie? A brain-damaged Aggie? Would we come back with good news and hope, or devastating news and last resorts?

They took our smiling child to that room where the real work would begin. I could have counted that moment as my workout for the day: the wrestling I did inside myself in order to let her go. There was a part of me that wanted to grab the gurney, pull her away from those people with needles and drills, and keep her safe with me. No you may not do those awful things to my baby! But she was not safe with me either, and so I let her go. (Weak and Loved A Mother-Daughter Love Story)

When I think of that moment of "letting" them take her to surgery, it reminds me also of that day I "let" my husband get on a plane and go to war.  (As if I had any choices in these matters.)

These are the moments when I see that I do not possess the people I love, that I do not get to demand another day with them.

To a lesser extent, this is the same thing that I feel whenever they go out from under the umbrella of my (supposed) protection:

Summer camp.
Play dates.
Sickness that won't go away.
Visits to Grandma and grandpa's.
Kindergarten.
 
These letting-gos are practice. They force our eyes open, and we see our smallness, the world's dangers, and the gulf between here and eternity.  They move us to fear, and to prayer.

God, take good care of my baby.

How do you deal with times of letting-go, little or big?

Summer Camp: A Test Flight

She rested on my hip, her soft baby thigh in my hand. I held her chubby thigh underneath the frills of her dress. The pink clip in her hair fell out, again. I squatted down to grab it, and she giggled loudly. I tried to shush her. “Mommy’s not trying to wrestle you right now honey! It’s church time!”

She grabbed for my earring to chew. I took them off, set them on the pew next to the small pink shoes she’d released earlier.

She gave me slobbery kisses.

She was just the baby, and I was just her mommy.

She put her arm around my neck and rested her head on my shoulder for a moment while the hymn played.

And then I blinked.