Patience to Endure

Author: Jocelynn Easton

  • A Good Deal

    I love a good deal. I actually get a little bit of an adrenaline rush when I find something worth much more than I have to pay. This Scripture seems like a good deal. I just have to give my trust and I receive complete joy and peace plus the added bonus of overflowing hope through the power of the Holy Spirit.

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    I am inclined to believe, however, that the trust I need to give Him in order to receive all those wonderful things has to be absolute and complete. It has to be with my whole heart, all my mind, and from the depths of my soul.

    To me trust is a choice. When someone is deemed worthy of my trust I can give it to them. But often, at least in my earthly relationships, I give trust in varying degrees. I can trust a friend’s recipe for meatloaf but perhaps not that she will keep a secret. I can trust a man with my time but perhaps not my heart. In fact, when I think about it I struggle to find anyone I trust unabashedly.

    Trusting another completely necessarily requires a leap of faith that can feel impossible for several reasons. Foremost to me, trust leaves me vulnerable. Years of time on earth has left me hurt countless times, sometimes to my core. A self-defense mechanism built in from experience is to reserve some trust just in case that person fails me. It is almost as if I can use it for a cushion to catch me when I fall.

    Trusting another also requires relinquishing control. Once we gift someone with our trust we cannot control what they will do with that so there is much wisdom in determining who is worthy. We gain wisdom by being in a relationship with that person. It comes over time and realizing through observation that the person is reliable and trustworthy. It would be foolish to trust someone you have only just met with your checkbook, we should not with our hearts which are so much more valuable.

    Often one does not trust completely because of a lie that was spoken into one’s life that now is believed as truth. Were you told you were too quiet or too loud? Were you made to feel unlovable or somehow inadequate? Were you abandoned? Was a parent overly critical? Did your spouse make you feel ugly? Was he unfaithful?

    The wonderful news is that God does none of those things. He is flat out crazy about you. If you are quiet or loud He wants you to use that for His Glory. He will never leave or forsake you. He thinks you’re the most beautiful person He has ever created. He is faithful.

    When I feel my trust in Him waver, I remember that I know, I really know who He was, who He is, and who He will be. I remember that “God has and He will”. He has comforted me in times of trouble and He will. He has provided all my needs and He will. He has redeemed my situation and He will. He has worked all things for good and He will. I choose to believe and trust He is who He says He is and who I have seen Him to be. He does not change and He does not fail.

    I can look to the Bible or my own life to know the character of God because I spend time with Him. What would my relationship with my children look like if I only spent a few minutes with them a day? What if I only talked to them when I needed something? What if I never put my phone down long enough to listen to them? How is God any different?

    One of my favorite conversations from the Bible is in Mark 9. A father is pleading with Jesus to help his son after the disciples were not able.

    The spirit often throws him into the fire or into water, trying to kill him. Have mercy on us and help us, if you can.”

    “What do you mean, ‘If I can’?” Jesus asked. “Anything is possible if a person believes.”

    The father instantly cried out, “I do believe, but help me overcome my unbelief!”

    I find so much solace that this man who is actually talking to Jesus has unbelief. Naturally, I imagine his disappointment with the disciples inability to help left room for doubt in Jesus. Was he judging the power of God to be lacking because of the failure of man?

    How often do I ask God to help me with those three words that can change the entire request…if you can? The difference between, “God, give me strength” versus “God, give me strength if you can” is the difference between knowing God is able and wondering if God is able. I see it, I am sure He does as well.

    Is it possible to believe in God but not trust Him? I think it is. Believe is defined as “accept (something) as true; feel sure of the truth of” whereas trust is “firm belief in the reliability, truth, ability, or strength of someone or something.” To me, trusting is so much more than believing.

    When I really read that definition I realize that no one is more worthy of my complete trust than God. He is reliable, truthful, able, and strong. In fact, He is the only one.

    I encourage you and myself to cry out as the father in Mark 9 does and replace the word believe with trust. Make this a heartfelt prayer.

    “I do trust, but help me overcome my lack of trust!”

    Then, and only then can God fill us completely with joy and peace, overflowing with confident hope. Then, the power of the Holy Spirit can be revealed in and through us. Now that, my friends, is a pretty good deal.

  • I Fly Still

    I Fly Still

    It seems for an entire year I have been grappling with the reality that my oldest, Emerson, is leaving. Indeed, tonight is his last night left under this roof until he moves to a new world in a new state in a new city, hours from home. For the past year I have mourned every last as his senior year unfolded – the last convocation, last performance, last Chapel, last dance. I have cried countless tears. Yet I have been giddy with excitement for his emerging chapter and know with utmost certainty he will thrive in college. I struggle with trying to remember another time in which I have been simultaneously bereaved and overjoyed during the same season, sometimes the same second. It is every maternal emotion converging as I prepare myself to let him go.

    We love looking to eagles as metaphors. The school Emerson attended from kindergarten through graduation has an eagle for a mascot. In the Bible, Isaiah 40:31 tells us

    But those who trust in the LORD will find new strength. They will soar high on wings like eagles. They will run and not grow weary. They will walk and not faint.

    Eagles are noble creatures. They are strong and fierce. They fly above the storm. When their little ones are reluctant to leave the nest they will stir it up. They take away the soft coating and leave twigs sticking out. It must be more uncomfortable for the babies to stay before they will leave. Those babies were not meant to live in the nest. Indeed, they were born to soar.

    The word soar is defined as: to fly high in the air; to increase rapidly above the usual level. It necessarily requires a dramatic change. For the last year I have been thinking about Emerson soaring away from me and it breaks my heart.  I have searched desperately to find how my child leaving my house is a good thing for me. I know all the reasons it is the best thing for him. In my imagination, I am watching him from the ground as he flies away. Just this morning it occurred to me that my image is faulty.  I am not on the ground. I fly still.

    As mothers I think we forget sometimes that we have wings purposed for our own use. So much of our time in flight is dedicated to the growth of our children and I believe it should be.  Then the day comes when they need us to fly for them less…and less…and less but our wings still long to.

    After all, my wings still work. I still yet have the opportunity to soar. Perhaps in the flying he and I will enjoy new ways of embracing our world. Our environment will go from a nest to the entire world. We will both grow. We will both experience a rapid change in level , upward. We will fly, at times, in tandem. We will begin to see the world from the same altitude.  He will see things I have told him of but he could only imagine because from his vantage point they simply were not visible.

    This is the answer to my prayer and my grieving heart. My child is not leaving me. He is learning to fly with and around me. And though life may have him fly further from the nest than I would like, he will be flying.

    So, dear son, fly…let your heart soar as high as it will.

    So will I.

  • Waves

    Waves

    I was at Topsail Island, North Carolina last week. At the very last-minute, I came across a round, blue home that had not been booked the very week I needed it. The home was half price and right on the beach. It would be our last vacation before my oldest leaves for his freshman year in college and my youngest begins kindergarten. It will be an autumn of change and letting go, in varying degrees, for me.

    Listening to the sound of the crashing waves and the ocean air puts my soul at rest like nothing else. I love being places where I can see with utmost clarity how small I really am. Standing at the shore gives me perspective, humility, and awe. It draws me closer to the One who created it.

    On our first day here, my six-year-old Nathan was terrified of the waves. I’m sure to a little one they are overwhelmingly large and powerful. Indeed, when I crouched down to his size I could see how much larger the waves appeared. Fearful, he would not go in any further than his shins.

    By the second day he went in further but had to be holding on to me the entire time. He wrapped his little arms around my neck as if his life depended on it. It was a balancing act that challenged these old bones but I managed to keep our heads above the water.

    On the third day he became a little more brave. We went in where it was above his head and he let go of me but insisted I hold on to him. He began laughing and giggling as the waves crashed over us. Every once in a while he would check to be sure I was holding his life jacket. He felt safe because he knew I was there.

    By the fourth day there my little guy found his courage. He began to swim away from me and tackle the waves on his own. For quite a while I stood behind him to be sure he would not get swept away. I watched with wonder as he figured out when to jump and when to dive. As we both gained confidence I could stop worrying that he would not be able to handle the waves. I even began jumping in with him. We laughed and played together. He would make sure I was alright when the waves overtook me. He even began to help me back up.

    But the day will come all too soon when he, like his oldest brother Emerson who is in this picture, will face the waves without me. He will use what he has learned to, with daring, go in on his own.

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    Seemingly just yesterday this man would not let go of me. In 10 days I will take him to New York City to begin his freshman year at New York University. He will face unknown seas. He will push through anxiety and fear. He will learn and adjust. He will find his balance. He will stumble. He will excel. He will live life in a way, up until this point, he has not known.

    He is a strong swimmer. He will never give up.  I just pray he has the wisdom to know when to jump over, into, under and with the waves. He faces them now with me on the shore, still watching and cheering him on but no longer right at his side. I am close enough to help if he needs but far enough for him to find his own rhythm. He will likely experiment in finding his own way but I know the foundation of what has been taught. I know his muscle memory will carry him even if he doesn’t know it.

    As he ventures in, some of the waves will catch him and pull him under but he will stand back up. Life taught him well. He has the strength and endurance because at such a tender age the waves of suicide and grief came crashing in and could have overtaken him but God would not allow it. Though at times we fought what felt like tsunamis, his arms were around me as mine were around our Father’s neck.

    So go forth with boldness, my sweet son. Dive deep. Float on your back. Soak in the sun and dance in the rain. Know how and when to conquer your waves.  If you are going to be tossed in them, you might as well smile. Choose joy. Choose love. Choose well.

    Breathe deeply. Let your heart be soft. Fall madly in love but always come home for Thanksgiving. Be careful with other people’s hearts. Hold them tenderly. Look for those who might need help as they are caught in waves. Take their hands and swim with them. Help them stand. Let them see the hope that they too can be unconquerable.

    Be brave. Find your own stride. Make mistakes but learn from them. Everything is redeemable and nothing is wasted. I could never love you less. Come home and rest. Run home for refuge.  You are not alone. You are my heart and the bond that was forged before you even knew air shall never ever waver.

    To use your own words:

    “The life we anticipated wasn’t the one we got, and for a while we were at sea, enduring tempests of abandonment and loss. It is easy to look at us – a widow, a divorced grandmother, three fatherless sons and say we don’t have a home. But we do. We have the same scars, same fears, and the same hopes because we’ve been battered by the same storms, and we all sail on the same tattered but triumphant ship… Home is imperfect people challenging each other’s imperfections because beyond the scars and gnarls and twists, they see something true and beautiful in each other, something beyond what the world has done to them, something that can never be taken away. Home is the shelter of the human soul. We all want to go home.”

    You will find other homes. My prayer is that you find your description of home many times in many people. But know, dear son, that my heart is a steadfast home for you.  It is tattered but triumphant. It is worn but soft. It is strong. It is your always home until I draw my last breath.

    If anyone was ever ready to swim alone, it is you. The world awaits. The world needs you so desperately. Swim, my son. Swim with all your heart and as if you have nothing to prove and nothing to lose.

    For even the wind and waves know His Name. And He knows yours. He knows it well.

     

     

  • Embracing Our Brokenness

    Embracing Our Brokenness

    I recently had the honor of sharing my testimony with the Ministry for Women at my church. The audio is below.

    I’m sharing mostly because friends had asked to hear but, honestly, I can’t figure out how to share it with anyone who does not have gmail.

    At any rate, this is part of my story.  I hope it blesses His heart

  • The Maintenance Man

    The Maintenance Man

    I pulled up to the massive school. The outside was pristine and beautiful but I could not tell where the entrance was to the theater. As I drove around the building for the second time I noticed a maintenance man wrestling with a ladder so I rolled down my window.

    “Excuse me, I’m trying to find the main entrance,” I said.

    He looked confused.

    “My son is performing today. Where is the theatre in this school?”

    He looked at me and then glanced around the school.

    “Ya know, I’ve been here ten years and I have no idea. I always work on the outside. We never go inside,” he said almost apologetically.

    I drove away and around the building another time when I finally noticed the camp counselors trying to direct parents but the man’s words stayed with me.

    For ten years he only worked on the outside of the building. He never went inside.

    I arrived early and those who know me will attest that is not unusual. I found the restroom and was surprised to see the state of the inside of the school. The pipes were rusty and paint was peeling. It did not at all match the near perfect outside.

    When the outside is glorious an expectation that the inside is equally marvelous is created. Inevitably, disappointment creeps in as you begin to see that the inside does not match the outside, not even close.

    I believe there is a pervasive notion in the Christian world that our outside needs to appear perfect. For, if we love Jesus we must have it “all together.” We can spend an entire decade caring for the outside without ever stepping inside. We aren’t sure what rooms are even in our hearts. We never peer in ourselves, let alone allow others the opportunity to see the messiest of our rooms.

    In a complete moment of honesty, I would say most of us have mismatched exteriors and interiors.  I know I do. Like the maintenance man I met, so much attention and detail is given to what others can see and I push things under the bed and into dusty corners. Eventually, though, someone will either be invited in or, perhaps, wander.

    He will ask about a room in my heart and I’ve spent so much time neglecting it, I’m not even sure where it is or how to get there. Unlike other guests, He knows exactly where the rooms are and what is in them.

    “It is this way,” He says, “let’s clean it up.”

    He opens the door and I can’t see anything but clutter. I see broken pieces everywhere.

    “It is too messy,” I tell Him.

    He picks up a piece.

    “We can do this, one piece at a time,” He reassures me.

    Gradually because of His patience and my perseverance, the room is livable.

    He leads me to the next room and opens the door.

    “I don’t want to clean this one,” I tell Him trying to shut the door. “This is where I keep my secrets.”

    “We must. Do you not see how much they have grown? They only gain in power in this darkness. They will bust out the windows and the doors. They will overtake the entire house. We must make room for what I want to put here but it is a big job. You will need help for this one, someone to come along side you. Someone who will check on the progress and help keep you on task. Let’s bring in a friend who will stay with you,” He tells me lovingly as He throws open the shades.

    We have been working so much on the inside that the outside is starting to look worn. I ask Him if we can work on the outside, the part people see.

    “It is all right,” He tells me. “We are making them match.”

    It is a long, painstaking process.  Room by room He opens the doors and shows me what needs to be done. Sometimes I am obedient. Other times I fight Him. Eventually, I surrender.

    Some rooms stay neat and orderly. Others require constant dusting and arranging. He shows me each time what needs to be done.

    The outside becomes more worn as the inside becomes more inviting. My exterior begins to match my interior. I open the doors, unashamed of the outer appearance and the interior’s condition. It is ready for guests to enter. It is ready for others to see. I am ready to share how, by the Grace of God and love of Christ, my house is restored. I share with them what it looked like before so they can know how it came to look as it does. I tell them I might need assistance keeping the rooms tidy. I ask for help. I offer to help with theirs.

    Like every house, though, constant maintenance is required. Now, however, I don’t leave the maintenance man outside. I invite Him in. Each and every day.

     

  • Two Roads

    My life often feels like this picture. I travel the rough road on the right while almost everyone I know travels the left. My road is bumpy and at times treacherous. There are places where there are no lines and days I don’t even know if I am on the correct side. Potholes appear suddenly and I swerve to miss them. It’s very constitution changes beneath me with no signs of warning. My road is worn from time and use.

    I watch as cars zoom by on the other side. From where I am, I am sure they can turn on cruise control. Their road is so well defined they can almost not think about the direction in which to go. I envy them as I watch. All the children have the ideal number of chromosomes. They do not have to stop often for doctor appointments or IEPs or meltdowns. They can stop anywhere to eat or use the restroom. Everyone just hops out of the car. We have to wait until there is a place with food easily pureed or family restrooms. We have a wheelchair and diapers for a 16 year old and a feeding tube. Life seems easy for them and I envy the simplicity.

    My road has many diversions. There are stops that take time and we can’t get anywhere fast. Mandatory hospital stays and surgeries keep us stranded, sometimes for days. There is nothing smooth about the road we travel.

    But it is our road and the only way we can travel on the other side is with the absence of one of our passengers and no one wishes that. So I learn to live as a vigilant driver. I adjust accordingly. I expect the unexpected. My children grow increasingly patient and empathic. They learn to lean when I swerve. They take care of one another in a way I doubt they would had we traveled the other road. There is no way to know for certain, but I suspect they are and will be different people for their journey.

    The grass is just as green on our side. We travel under the same sky, the same stars, the same moon. We see the same sun and God shines on both roads. We have wild flowers, rolling hills, and lush meadows. The scenery is as beautiful. In the slowness of our pace I can take in more of it. I can breathe deeply and almost smell the morning dew. It is during the stops that seem so long when I notice the clouds and the sun. It is those moments that give us a chance to dance even when there is no music.

    See, my road still goes somewhere. Although it is different and challenging I am grateful to be on it. It is, for the most part, exhausting. Cruise control is not an option. Even so, I know full well there are families who wish they could be on my road. For they once were but at one of the stops they had to leave their special passenger and pieces of their own hearts. I know they would give anything to deal with potholes and wheelchairs and doctor appointments. I know they miss this road and I realize it is an honor to be exactly where I am.

    I can spend my time begrudgingly traveling, indignant and angry for the road on which I traverse. Or I can drive with gratitude and joy but I must drive.

    I must travel.

    How I do is entirely up to me.

  • Even Loveable

    Even Loveable

    I never once imagined what types of challenges a family with a child with special needs faces until I had one. I never even considered their lives as perhaps different from my own until October 26, 2001 when my middle son, Wesley, was handed to me in the delivery room.

    Since his birth his diagnosis has changed. New ones were added and some changed entirely. When he was ten years old the diagnosis of Autism was added to his resume. It did not come as surprise like the other diagnoses. This one was entirely expected.

    When I speak about the world of autism to friends with typical children more often than not I receive one of three reactions. Sometimes their eyes glaze over and I can tell I am not speaking the language they know. Other times I am greeted with looks of pity and I am certain they do not understand. Yet other times they look at me as if seeking to understand but always as if looking through a window. They could not know my life in any other way other than peering into it but never stepping into the room.

    The world of autism is a colorful, bright, confusing world. It often does not make sense to me but it doesn’t have to. It is seeing the world through the eyes of my son whose brain does not process information like mine. Sometimes it is a beautiful opportunity and other times it is heart breaking.

    The world of autism is challenging. It is living in chaos while maintaining strict regimens. Deviations from the schedule can be catastrophic. Autism is violent and melt downs occur at any place and anytime. It is stubborn and unyielding at times.

    The world of autism is beautiful. It is a place of unconditional love. A place where it doesn’t matter what you did or who you are. You are a beloved friend. Autism is loving others with reckless abandon. It is laughter over the silliest things and sometimes over nothing at all.

    The world of autism is tiresome. It is constant exhaustion and being at a heightened stage of alertness at all times. It is trying to be one step ahead, attempting to predict the behavior of an unpredictable child. I am rarely rested or relaxed.

    The world of autism is celebratory. It does not matter the size of the accomplishment but that progress occurred. We celebrate everything. Wesley put his cup on the table instead of throwing it across the room – celebrate! He put three signs together – celebrate! He got out of the car in under twenty minutes – celebrate! Autism does not allow anything to be taken for granted.

    The world of autism is hilarious. I have developed a sense of humor to get me through. When the school emailed me to tell me Wesley was taking off his shoes and throwing them at people I couldn’t help but laugh and have a slight sense of pride. After all, he had put two skills together. He took his shoes off AND then threw them! Each one had taken years of physical therapy to accomplish. In the world of autism I laugh far more than I cry.

    The world of autism is triumphant. It is reaching in and finding more energy, more patience, more wisdom, more knowledge, more everything in order to be the parent my child needs me to be. It is the fire which refines me into a better mother, daughter, and friend. I am a better human being because I know autism.

    The world of autism is a blessed place. It is an impossible place on some days. It is an eclectic place every day. It is an amplified existence where the highs are higher but the lows are lower. It is not ordinary. It is our world. We can love it or we can hate it but we must live in it.

    I am now not who I was on October 26, 2001. Not only did my life change the next day, my entire world did. I went from one reality to another in the amount of time it took for my then husband to say, “the geneticist will come tomorrow.” I did not have time to pack my bags and plan a trip. I had no opportunity to brace for impact. I found myself in a strange land with a different language and I learned as I went along. However, now I am stronger. I am wiser. I am unconquerable because my son has shown me how to be. I learned to be a warrior by watching him work for every milestone and from the other mothers who showed me their beautiful scars.

    Our child does not “suffer from autism.” He has brown hair and green eyes. He has autism. It is part of who he is. He knows no other way to be. He does not look at his siblings longing to be like them. He knows what most of society still needs to learn – he is perfectly whole in spirit. I do believe he is more complete than I am. He is the most entire soul I know and it is an privilege to be his mother. It is my highest honor.

    When I first met Autism it was as an adversary to be feared but became a constant companion. It is understandable. It is acceptable. It is even lovable.

  • Two Crosses

    Two Crosses

    As Easter approaches I have been thinking about the Cross. To the Romans, at that time, it was a means to inflict the most shame and send a resounding message of defeat. They had several methods of capital punishment but reserved crucifixion to leave a lingering message to their enemies. It was the most painful and disgraceful punishment in an arsenal that included strangulation, stoning, and burning.

    Yet the lingering message the crucifixion of Jesus was not what the Romans intended. As Christians we do not see shame, defeat, or disgrace when we look at a Cross, the symbol of our faith. We see redemption and resurrection. We see victory. We see love so great that even death could not consume it.

    Growing up in the Christian world I have heard, “we all have our cross to bear” countless times. In Luke 9:23 Jesus says “And He said to all, If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross daily and follow me.”

    However, “we all have our cross to bear” was almost always said to me with a negative connotation. We use it when discussing hardship or challenge. The image it would immediately bring to my mind is Jesus carrying His cross up that hill to die.

    But what if that is the wrong image of the cross I bear? Am I thinking of the Roman cross or Jesus’ Cross? Upon the Roman cross is nailed a punishment but upon my Jesus’ cross there is an invitation, the sweetest of proposals. What man meant for torture and shame only by the power of God was transformed to give life and promises both for now and eternity. What was meant to kill a movement changed the entire world and every heart for those who truly believe.

    My thoughts about the cross of Jesus turn to my own personal cross. What is that one thing that was meant to, or could have, destroyed me but by the power and Grace of a loving God became my triumph?

    I live in a complicated, beautiful world of special needs and autism. I can’t recall the specific moment I went from being a timid, frightened mother to a banner waving, “wohoo special needs is awesome” kind of mom. It was a natural progression and at some indescribable moment the cross I carried was transformed from a death sentence to a life promise. I discovered that the cross I bear doesn’t have to be the one society gave me but must be the one God intended for me.

    My mind and my heart made the decision that my cross would represent life and love and power. My faith allowed God the opportunity to give me the ability to accomplish this. Special needs could have destroyed who I was instead of transforming me into who I was meant to be.

    Make no mistake, it is a difficult world in which we who love someone with special needs live. We often feel isolated and different because we are. Other mother’s of teenagers are busy going to basketball games or track meets. I am going to every sensory friendly event offered and doctor appointments with every specialist. I am often exhausted. Everything others take for granted can be and often is an overwhelming challenge to my family.

    It is not easy. It is impossible to not be changed by living in the world of special needs. It is possible to decide what sort of change will take place.

    The world in which we live is colorful. It is filled with hugs and joy. It isn’t about the fact that my son cannot speak, it is about the fact that he speaks with no words. Everything others take for granted can be and often is an overwhelming victory for my family. It is life amplified. The lows are heartbreaking but the highs are found in heights I could only appreciate by having a child like mine.

    I do not choose whether or not I will bear a cross, I choose what my cross looks like and how I carry it. I decide whether or not it will represent shame and disgrace or the glorious promise that God works all things for good. I alone can cast my eyes down in despair or raise my chin and hold my head high.

    What is the cross you must bear? Is it abandonment? Your addiction? The death of a loved one? A medical diagnosis? Mental health struggles? Guilt? Will it be a cross of shame that you hang upon despondent and alone? Or will it be a cross of promise for all to see and perhaps extract hope for themselves?

    The important part to remember is the cross you bear doesn’t have to be a cross of disgrace just because society deems it so. It can become the cross of redemption, resurrection, and victory because God deems it so. He deemed it on Calvery and He deems it in your situation.

    It is entirely up to you to choose which cross you will carry. The rest is up to God and He never fails.

  • Find the K’s

    Find the K’s

    I bought Nathan, my five-year-old, a workbook to reinforce his pre-k lessons regarding learning letters. One of the exercises required him to circle all the letter k’s from letters randomly thrown across the page. Once that was complete he was to connect the circles to reveal the picture. He had a role to play and had to put effort into the exercise.

    I watched as my son examined the letters with the tenacity of a scientist. He carefully circled each k he could find. I gazed down at the page and could easily see what the picture would be . From an adult’s mind there was no great mystery to be revealed but to a child it was entirely unknown.

    Halfway through circling the k’s he looked up at me with his gigantic blue eyes.

    “What is it going to be, Mommy?” he asked.

    “Keep working baby,” I told him. “You will see”.

    He could not decipher the image as it slowly unfolded. I could have just told him, “Oh it’s a kitten with a kite” and ruined the surprise for him. I could have given him the information and all his hard work would have been for nothing. Giving him the answer would not have helped him learn the lesson brought before him. Instead, I waited patiently as he continued seeking.

    A few moments later he looked at me and said “Mommy I want to circle some of the n’s for Nathan” as he circled one.

    I gently remind him that was not the task at hand. If he circled the n’s he would not see the picture that was intended. I helped him refocus on what he was supposed to do but I did not condemn him. I did not yell at him for becoming distracted. I gently nudged him back to where he was supposed to be. It was entirely up to him to listen or not.

    “But I circled one,” he told me with discouragement.

    “It’s ok, we can erase it and pretend like it never happened,” I said taking the pencil from him to rid his mistake.

    “Thank you,” he replied sweetly as I kissed him on the head.

    Once he finished his eyes lit up with utter joy and excitement.

    “It is a kitten flying a kite!” he screamed.

    At that moment I limited myself to join him on his level and said with equal excitement and surprise, “It is! Well done!”

    I was not condescending even though I knew all along what the picture would reveal. I genuinely was thrilled. I applauded the effort and relished his sense of accomplishment.

    How often is this the scene from my life? I know what I am supposed to be doing. I am searching for my k’s so that I might connect the dots and see the mystery unfold before me. Some days I can be tenacious and other days I am rather lazy. Some days all of the k’s stand out and I can clearly see the direction to take. Yet other days life is such a jumbled mess I cannot see with clarity. I have times when trying to put order to the chaos is overwhelming and I am sure it will never be more than a complete mess.

    Even so, God is standing over me. He is encouraging me to keep on trying. He knows what the picture will be. Not only can He already see it, He created it. He knows that upon completion I will be ecstatic with what has been given to me. He lowers Himself as any good parent would and is just as excited as I am when the final picture is revealed. He may even exclaim, “Well done!”

    But I get distracted. I want to wander from what I am meant to do to what I want to do. My focus is diverted to something that does not contribute to the beautiful picture being created for me. I misstep. It is corrected, blotted out by a loving and gracious parent. He tells me, “It is ok. We can pretend as if that never happened. I erased it for you already.”
    He gently nudges me to continue. He tells me that though it doesn’t make sense right now, with each next step the picture will become a little clearer.

    I persist. The more k’s I circle the fewer letters there are to sort through. It becomes easier and easier for me to find another one and then another. I just do the next right thing.

    I rejoice in the accomplishment when the picture is complete. I can finally see how my hard work with God’s guidance and Grace has created for me beauty from chaos. I thank Him for His love and encouragement. He kisses me on the head. With the eagerness of a child I say, “May I have another one?” and He happily hands me a new page.

  • It is in the letting go…

    I had a good cry this morning. And this afternoon. And this evening. I am facing the reality that in two months my oldest son, Emerson, will graduate from high school. He will finally spread his wings and in August will fly straight to NYC.

    Today I found myself wishing I could be more like eagles. When their young are ready to leave the nest the mother eagles will  “stir up the nest” and make it uncomfortable for the babies to stay where they are.  She will change the composition of the home from a safe, comfortable nest by scratching the soft layer away leaving only rocks and twigs exposed. The discomfort for the babies to stay where they are becomes greater than the fear of flying where they need to be. Something in the mother’s DNA knows when it is time for them to leave. She knows that only by testing their wings will they actually soar. It is instinctual for her to let them go for she knows the strength of those wings will allow her babies to fly even above the storm. They will know not to try to fly through it. They rise above.

    There is absolutely nothing instinctual to me about having my child leave home. It goes against every way in which I have been created. Yet this mother’s heart knows Emerson is more than ready. I, however, am not. When he was little I knew that my time with him was fleeting. I savored every moment as if in doing so it would slow down time. It didn’t.

    Wasn’t it only yesterday I rocked him to sleep in my arms while singing “someday we’ll find it, the rainbow connection…”? Surely it was last week he was pushing his little cart through the grocery store. He was my shadow and followed me everywhere, even to the bathroom. Wasn’t it only last month he would proudly collect dandelions from the yard and present me with the most beautiful bouquet ever?

    He and I have weathered ferocious storms together. He stayed with me and hospitals several times while his brother laid in the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit. When his father died a little boy tried to become the man of the house. His self-imposed burden to do so and to be the child with no needs was and is exhausting and I am happy his load will be lightened. I am joyful in knowing that he will begin to become who he was meant to be absent of the every day trials our family faces. Only the pursuit of his dreams awaits my sweet son and this brings me solace even in the midst of grieving.

    Unlike his father’s death, though, I see this loss coming. This time I see the mountain in the distance and don’t find myself suddenly at it’s base. We are heading there slowly and steadily and part of me wishes I could just hit the brakes and keep him little forever.

    The hardest part of motherhood is not the runny noses and fevers. It is not the temper tantrums and eye rolls. It isn’t the sleepless nights, exhaustion, or endless “to do” lists.

    It is in the letting go.

    The process of breaking off a piece of my own heart so that my son may be whole is the biggest, most difficult challenge I have faced as a mother. It is necessary and I knew the end goal when I signed up for motherhood. Yet I did not think it would come so soon or so painfully.

    Preparing for my son to leave the nest is somewhat like a death. As Christians we believe when our loved ones die they go not just to a better place, they are in Paradise. The sadness we feel, the grief, is for what we miss and for what we lost. We don’t grieve where they are, we grieve that we were left behind. Emerson will be exactly where he belongs. He will discover who he is and begin his quest toward his greatness, whatever that looks like. He will meet new friends and his mind will expand further than he ever imagined. But I will be in the same house and it will be quieter. I will no longer attend functions at the upper school and see the moms I have grown to love over the last 13 years. I will not tap on his door just to say “I love you.” I will not sit at the kitchen table every night dunking cookies in milk and solving the world’s problems with him. Surely, a piece of my heart will be gone.

    Parenthood, when done well, is about sacrificial love. It is consistently putting our needs aside and attending to our children. I have eighteen years of learning and growing in sacrificial love. This, however, is the greatest and most painful sacrifice. It is accompanied by excitement in the promises yet to unfold for him but some days those just aren’t enough to keep grief at bay. Days like today it simply hurts. Days like today I feel the breaking of my own heart. Days like today I hate time for going so fast and my powerlessness to stop it. Days like today I can only mourn the letting go.

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