The sheet my son holds is thin and weathered from the years.
It is an inherited page from my husband’s family.
The words and songs were his as a child and are our tradition now, and we claim them in this kitchen one more year.
He is 18 and he reads Isaiah while “Joy to the World” plays.
My daughter is on FaceTime from her college dorm room and we have her propped up at the end of the table.
This is our tradition and we have vowed to call each other every Sunday in advent if we can’t be together. The lighting of the advent candles together is something we have done since they were each babies.
We remember the anticipation that lasted hundreds of years.
The waiting, the expectation.
Knowing something is coming and asking over again:
When? How long do we have to wait?
My son lights the hope candle: the first Sunday of Advent message. We are quiet and still. It’s hard to sit in the quiet.
After he reads and we pray, we all open our eyes.
I glance at my daughter there on the screen, now almost 21. She shares a birthday with Jesus.
I see her as a toddler.
I remember how we sat together in a a wooden pew on Christmas Eve, she in a white furry coat, on the eve of her 3rd birthday. A brown basket of candles was passed and we each reached for one. They were pure white, with circles attached to their bases to catch the drips. The lights dimmed. Flames were shared between us. We tipped towards each other, looking into each others’ eyes. “Silent Night” began to be softly sung by the choir and we joined our voices.
This girl had leaned in close to me.
She had whispered: “Is everyone going to sing Happy Birthday to ME?”
She thought the song was about her.
My eyes and cheeks had giggled softly, reined in only by the reverence of the moment.
I marveled at her.
“No, sweetie, we’re all singing Happy Birthday to Jesus.But we will sing to you very soon.”
I thought to myself:
“You are a miracle. But HE is the biggest miracle. This is HIS song.”
She had reminded me that year. It’s not about me.
We get up from the kitchen table, the hope candle burning.
I squint and strain to remember again.
This light marking the first week of waiting, of Advent, the candle my son lights and the faded words on the page of our family paper?
None of it has to do with my present struggles.
And nothing bought in a store can make anything sing inside of me. This moment and song and candle are about a hope that we cannot purchase or muster up.
There is no need to scurry, nothing we need to DO today to receive hope.
We won’t miss anything by being still and silent and singing to Him. And just maybe we will be found when we get lost in the light of His coming.
We are waiting for something meek and low in the dirty mess of a manger.
Someone that lays In the slivered wood.
The same wood that would become His cross.
Tonight, after we have extinguished the first candle, I take the Nativity figures out of the box that has been stored in the attic for more than 300 days.
I place the figures one by one there on the tray in the family room.
I study the faces and remember the place that surrounded baby Jesus:
3 men with gifts.
A teenage homeless girl.
A frightened father.
A stable lined with hay with no walls to keep out the night or the dark or cold.
The only things shining are Him and the star that marks His place.
It’s a reclaiming, remembering the season fresh.
“No, no” I whisper. This hope can’t be bought or found for a bargain.
And it cannot be barricaded. He is coming.
And the song that is playing in the background now is not about me.
It’s not MY song.
I’m not sure how old Shelby was when I noticed that her emotions were deeper and more sensitive than most. But I do recall arranging and rearranging her stuffed animals A LOT to get them in just the right spot so she could sleep. Perfectionism is a trait she inherited from me, but there was something more going on.
My daughter will turn 21 on Christmas Day and she has grown up to be an articulate, sensitive, self-aware, and deeply faith-filled woman. She doesn’t miss a Sunday at church or an opportunity to meet with her small group. She is a leader on campus and a mentor to children. She is studying psychology with and aspires to continue in graduate school with a degree in occupational therapy. She has always wanted to help others.
She also has generalized anxiety disorder.
It’s something we named in high school. And giving something a name is the first step in dealing with it. I am so proud of Shelby’s transparency and vulnerability in sharing and advocating for others who struggle with any form of mental or physical illness or disability.
We talked a bit about our journey here: the things that have worked, what clearly doesn’t (ways I messed way up in dealing with this) and how faith and tangible tools can make a difference. We pray that someone can see the hope and tools available in this journey.
The scriptures we mention are Phil 4:6 and 1 Peter 5:7
We wanted to have lunch together so I collected places for us to sit. A wheelchair from the hallway, one random chair outside a room, mom’s scooter and the bed’s edge would have to do for the five of us. Mom had been at the Joseph Still Burn Center for a few days, her first of three surgeries behind her. An infection that threatened to take her entire leg had ravaged. I raised her bed some and she sat up. I rubbed lavender lotion on her dry hands, being careful not to touch the iv. It was sore and painful from all the prodding.
Although mom’s injury was not a burn, the wound that she had suffered from an accident with her horse had become serious and full of infection. The services she was seeking in her small town in northern Georgia were helpful but we knew that the road would be much longer without the skill of a world-renowned wound and burn care center. How fortunate that we knew that the expertise and facilities existed just a few miles from our home. We had never utilized the center but knew that patients from all over the country were transferred here for the best care.
My son arrived in the room first, a bag of Panera salads in his hands. It was then that I noticed what a ragged collection of seats we had pulled around her bed. Being together meant everything in these moments. It was Mother’s Day. But one unlike any other we had celebrated. In room 1006 on the burn and wound unit floor, the facility was near capacity.
I remembered then how one of the staff members had told us about the Burn Foundation and neighboring Chavis House. Before the Foundation, family members were sleeping on the floor of this hospital, desiring to stay close to their loved ones who had suffered life-altering burns and wounds. Family members could now stay there, close to those they love.
My husband offered a prayer of gratitude. We knew that looking around the halls of this place that we were lucky. Perspective is a precious thing. Because when others are undergoing amputations and rehabilitation from burn wounds it will straight up awaken you to the present, to the right now, to every small gift, as humble as it may seem.
A dear friend came to visit us that night and told mom and I the story of Joseph M. Still, the hospital’s founder who had dedicated his entire professional life to improvements in the treatment of burn patients. How he partnered with Doctor’s Hospital to create one of the world’s leading treatment facilities for burn victims. His care carried far beyond hospital walls. He also founded the Southeastern Firefighters Burn Foundation, a non-profit organization devoted to helping burn patients and their families with non-medical necessities.
He was a visionary, seeing the bigger picture that most could not see. Determined, generous, compassionate, hard-working, risk taking, problem-solving. Dr. Still’s dream was to provide a place for family members to stay while their loved ones were in the Burn Center. In his words “A family’s love is powerful medicine.”
It was apparent that his legacy lived on through every single worker: from the nurses and surgeons, to the care team that showed up to be sure my mom and stepfather knew that they could stay for free at the neighboring Chavis House for as long as necessary to be near the facility and receive homemade meals.
Mom ended up having three surgeries in all and did utilize the Chavis House as our home has too many stairs for her to maneuver with the wound vac that became her constant companion.
Just last week, six months after my mother’s release from the hospital, I was given a tour of both the burn unit and the Chavis House, meeting and thanking physicians, nurses, and foundation staff personally for the care that my mother and our entire family received during her multiple surgeries. Although we live in Augusta, my mom had traveled from 3 ½ hours away and the staff had made sure her and my stepfather’s needs were met with free housing and meals as needed.
During my tour my guide Sherrie remembered me and offered an open hug, inquiring about my mom’s recovery. She was on the phone coordinating the intake of a patient from the Caribbean while checking on families of children in the ICU. My eyes welled with tears as I met Katie, a former patient of the center who also joined our tour. She had been burned on 75% of her body after being set on fire with gasoline. Katie spent 7 months at the center while her family from Minnesota was housed at the Chavis House. One after another, the nurses of the ICU hugged Katie. It was the day that she announced to them all that she is now pregnant, a miracle after all she has been through.
As I peeked into a child’s room in the ICU I was overwhelmed with gratitude., that such a place exists not just for us here Augusta, but for those in need of this level of care from all over the world. . I heard stories of patients (including Katie) that were told by other facilities that they should simply make funeral arrangements. There was nothing that could be done medically for the extent of their burns.
But the Joseph Still Burn center does not turn away patients and infuses more hope into situations than I have ever witnessed. Their work is relentless and filled with genuine love with a focus on family support, all while they serve on the front lines in one of the most challenging lines of work.
I stepped into the room where triage occurs when patients are helicoptered in. I had heard those helicopter blades turning more times than I care to remember during my mother’s stay, each time breathing a silent prayer.
I was also struck that every component of care is named for a person. An individual who understood the both the power of state of the art medicine like oxygen chambers, wound vacs, reconstruction, prosthesis and other innovative procedures offered at the burn center, and the life-altering impact of family that is equally needed to support the long term recovery of patients.
The Joseph M. Still Burn Center is the largest burn unit in the United States. As the Burn Center grows, so do the needs for the Burn Foundation. In 2017
1435 guests received free lodging at the Chavis House
48% of Chavis House guests were Georgia residents
25% of burn patients were children
14,700 meals were served at the Chavis House, all prepared and donated by local churches and other organizations
The Jeffrey Vaden Chavis House which sleeps forty guests and serves as a home-away-from-home where family members are able to stay near their loved ones as they recuperate from their injuries. The house is named in memory of firefighter Jeff Chavis who lost his life as a result of burns he suffered in the line of duty.
The Shirley Badke Retreat, named for a courageous burn survivor, is home to the administrative offices
The Orlet Garden of Hope provides a place where our guests can get away from the hospital environment, pray, meditate or simply enjoy the natural beauty of the garden.
In addition to housing and meals, last year hundreds of burn survivors received assistance with:
Gas vouchers/ bus tickets
Last week my mother rode her horse for the first time since her accident. Her ability to return to activities that she loves is nothing short of a miracle made possible because of the selfless vision of Dr. Still and the staff that now assures that no patient feels alone along their long road to recovery.
I stand in gratitude and offer my voice and our experience as a testimony to the selfless work being done daily, right here in our own backyard.
To support the ongoing needs for free, supportive services for patients and their families I urge you to contribute.You can join me and Troy as we seek to further Dr. Still’s legacy by clicking this link. Every gift, no matter the size, will bring comfort to families facing traumatic burns.
I’m so honored to welcome my friend Jennifer Dukes Lee to this space today. She is a fellow lover of Iowa sunsets and dirt roads. Our paths first crossed several years ago on a writer’s retreat and God orchestrated many meet-ups since then which have included evenings at her Iowa farm catching fireflies with our girls and a trip to Haiti serving alongside each other.
Jennifer’s authentic words have spoken into my own life on so many levels and I know you will be blessed by her words, her humor, and her heart for Jesus. Here’s just a little glimpse into her heart and the heart of her latest book which releases today:
We say that God has everything under control, but we aren’t always aware in the same way that a farmer is aware. That’s one of the biggest lessons I’ve learned in my years as a farmer’s wife.
Farming is putting yourself in a position to trust God. It’s a way of life in which you can’t miss the truth: God is God of the clock, God of the calendar, God of the weather, God of the to-do list. God alone knows when the rain will come, when the heat will rise, when it’s time for the seed to push up from the dark into the light.
A lot of people have romantic notions about farm life. But hard things lie beneath the idyllic overlay. There are grueling uncertainties, great losses, late nights, crazy markets, droughts, insects, disease, hailstorms, equipment that breaks down when you need it most, and tragically, despair that has led to a higher-than-average suicide rate nationally.
My husband Scott says he has no choice but to trust God. For years he’s gone around this farm saying, “God’s got it.” And when he says, “God’s got it,” he is talking himself into the truth. That’s a form of what I call active trust. Active trust is proactively believing God. Active trust is giving yourself the gift of future faith, in advance.
For my husband, active trust came out of necessity, rather than some superpious gene he inherited. He is a farmer, always at the mercy of God.
God’s got it = active trust.
In Western culture, it’s tempting to say “God’s got it” but not really live it. We’re more of a “you got this” culture.
You want to pursue your passion? You got this. You want to start a business? You got this. You want to start a new exercise program? You got this. You’ve definitely got it in you to do all of those things, but how often do you and I forget that what’s “in us” is the very Spirit of God?
We live in a culture where we’ve set ourselves up to play God. The first time that I found out my mammogram was abnormal, my immediate instinct was to run for the Google machine and ask it what “asymmetrical tissue” means.
For almost every possible scenario, we have a means of control available to us: a spray to control weeds, a cream to control wrinkles, a pill to control hunger. It’s no wonder we’ve been fooled into thinking we are the ones calling the shots. It’s hard to surrender our lives to God when we’ve got everything covered ourselves, isn’t it?
This, of course, leaves us feeling on the hook for everything. And suddenly we turn around, inspect our lives, and find that we are miles from God.
What do we want with our lives? What do we really want? When we strip all the faux self-sufficiency away, we can see it clearly. We want Jesus. We are hungry for the God who first stole our hearts. We want to do the things that God wants us to do. We want to partner with him, not boss him around. When we lay our heads down at night, we want to feel the incomparable satisfaction of knowing we spent our day in the center of his will. We want to be remembered as women who did exactly what God wanted us to do—rather than as overworked, weary women who lost their joy.
Nothing else on our to-do lists matters as much as knowing we were completely obedient to his. Nothing will give us more joy than giving our yes when God invites us to be a part of what he’s already doing, knowing it deep and true:
God’s got it.
Adapted from It’s All Under Control: A Journey of Letting Go, Hanging On, and Finding a Peace You Almost Forgot Was Possible by Jennifer Dukes Lee, a brand new release from Tyndale House Publishers
Jennifer Dukes Lee is the wife of an Iowa farmer, mom to two girls, and an author. She loves queso and singing too loudly to songs with great harmony. Once upon a time, she didn’t believe in Jesus. Now, He’s her CEO. Jennifer’s newest book, It’s All Under Control, and a companion Bible study, are releasing today! This is a book for every woman who is hanging on tight and trying to get each day right―yet finding that life often feels out of control and chaotic.
I’m so excited to be a part of a huge giveaway to celebrate the release of It’s All Under Control. Jennifer and her publisher, Tyndale, are giving away 50 copies of the book in celebration of its release! Enter below to win. Giveaway ends September 30. Winners will be notified by Tyndale House Publishers. Email subscribers can click here to enter.
In a world full of technology, handwriting still holds the most power.
Many years ago my grandmother moved from the home she had lived in for most of her life to a smaller apartment in a retirement community. A few weeks later a large box arrived at my house. Our postal carrier delivered a brown cardboard package that held every letter I had ever written to her. They spanned a forty year period. I sat with each letter, note, and photograph I had sent and marveled.
My entire life was there in that box- from the earliest scribbling to my ramblings about being a mom with two children in middle school. My own handwriting told my complete story and these pieces of paper are one of the most precious gifts I have ever received.
The arrival of that box all those years got me thinking- what happened to the handwritten word?
Have we (almost) completely erased the loopy cursive of grandma’s recipe card with an online program that stores our recipes? Have our mailboxes really evolved to only contain unwanted bills, solicitation letter, and junk mail with only a few intermittent birthday cards, birth and graduation announcements? Is it true that most of the younger generation has no idea how to write or read cursive?
I wondered if we needed a revival. So I started a little experiment last fall. I wrote a note every day for an entire month. A “thank you” to our youth pastor, a note of encouragement to a friend, a letter of gratitude to a colleague or mentor. As the days stretched on I could always brainstorm just one more person who could be blessed by an old-fashioned letter, sent snail mail. And I realized something. Taking the time to buy stationary, find a stamp, look up an address, and hand write a note blessed ME just as much as it did the recipients. I received messages and letters back. My phone rang more. I felt more connected to people I had lost touch with or had never acknowledged their importance in my life. Business colleagues showed me that they had saved their note, pinned to a bulletin board just like we save the Christmas ornament that was shaped of macaroni and spray painted gold, a relic from our children’s preschool days.
And so today I issued a challenge. Could we collectively bring back handwritten words? Could we use pen and ink and have patience and intention as in the days before texting, Tweeting, and Facebook Messenger?
I’m up for this challenge and I am inviting you to join me. Every Thursday I will be posting just one prompt. One way we can use handwritten words to bless others, and ourselves. If you are inclined to share your journey on social media, just post a photo and use #InkWELLMovement I’d love to see how your words are impacting the world. You can watch the LIVE Facebook video below for more:
This week’s prompt is simply to write one thank you note. Think outside the box. Send it to someone unexpected, who may have no idea the impact they’ve had in your life. We can use our pens for power. Then use #InkWELLMovement if you post about it online. I’d love to connect with you!
Amy Breitmann is an author, speaker, and entrepreneur. She is the owner of Blue Jean Communications, specializing in strategy and storytelling for brands and businesses. Subscribe to her email list HERE.
Two weeks ago my daughter’s boyfriend bought her a Kate Spade wallet in NYC. We had wandered around touching all the pretty things, basking in the happy glow that surrounds Kate Spade stores. I had texted my friend Tracy a picture of the flagship store in NYC because I knew of her passion for bows and all things Kate.
Although Kate had sold her brand to Neiman Marcus in 2006 (the brand has had several owners since) and was currently working on building other brands, she remained the iconic founder and figure behind the beloved brand.
I read just today that the last marketing campaign launched by the Kate Spade brand before her death was called “Where’s Kate?” All videos have been pulled from the internet for obvious reasons, but the eerieness of it remains. Apparently it included an actress portraying Kate herself trying to be found by a detective.
Let that sink in.
The questions that we have all been collectively asking since Tuesday when we learned that she hung herself with a red scarf in her gorgeous NYC apartment are all a form of:
Where was Kate, really?
Where were her friends?
Where were the meds?
And we ask WHY:
Why didn’t she call someone?
Why didn’t we know about her private struggle?
Why didn’t someone see signs?
A couple of days later we found ourselves asking the same questions about Anthony Bourdine.
The real question we need to be asking is:
Why don’t we talk about mental illness like we talk about cancer, diabetes and heart disease?
And also, we might want to refer to the fact that there are some questions that will never ever be answered in this lifetime.
I am familiar with the wrong questions. When I was diagnosed with ovarian cancer at the age of 29 I got doozies like these: “Were you a heavy smoker?” “Do you have a history of cancer in your family?” “Didn’t you FEEL something or have symptoms before that grapefruit-sized tumor was removed?”
No. No. No.
Rumors flew as far as Texas that the cancer had moved to my brain, that I was dying and would leave my daughter orphaned.
People will talk. And they will scrutinize. Especially when things are hard to believe and come seemingly out of nowhere. It’s how we distance ourselves. It’s how we swallow the belief that “it could never happen to me or someone I love.” So we stand at a distance and calculate the many clues to its happening and the ways OTHERS could have prevented it.
I’m not sure what we’ve done with the disease of mental illness. We all seem to have a retrospective opinion when the monster called depression takes one of our own: Robin Williams, Kate Spade, a friend’s son. We want answers to impossible questions. We want a finger to point. We want an explanation, a reason. A way that we could have prevented it, single-handedly and collectively.
It has got to be excruciatingly painful for those close to Kate and anyone who has been lost to suicide and depression. The way we want to make sense of it. The way we flounder with our questions and our near accusations. How we put hotlines and solutions up online. As if we can solve this.
Don’t you think they are asking all the same questions?
I’m not implying we don’t offer help and resources and medications and ALL the things. Not just during a storm of awareness that celebrity deaths bring. But maybe these spotlight cases of what happens daily can bring us together to mourn a little bit together. Can we hold out a hand?
Cancer is a disease too and it has very few rules that it follows. Just today I ran into an old friend at lunch who is one of the lead cancer researchers in the world. She spends every day all day trying to figure this thing out.
I have know women who were diagnosed on Friday and died on the following Tuesday. Or those with cancer who sought all the treatments: the chemo, the homeopathic ways, yoga, wheatgrass, the clinical trials. And still they lost the earthly battle. Sometimes after years of public battles, but often in silent, steady ways that even those closest to them never knew. I used to hear from these women at the ministry I co-founded. I became the “stranger on the airplane,” the ones women struggling with cancer could trust with all their insecurities. They would share the fears that would never be uttered to their spouses or children.
They suffered in literal silence while every resource surrounded them.
I had fought a similar, silent, deadly monster. And I know it could return. It’s a precarious place to live.
Monsters like cancer and mental illness can strike silent and deadly at any time. It’s time we call it what it is: a disease. Dis ease. Lack of ease. There is no easy treatment, cure, answer, prevention.
Can we do things that help? Yes.
Do we have guarantees that it will not kill us? No.
If someone with epilepsy has a seizure and loses consciousness in a matter of minutes then couldn’t it also be true that suicidal episodes are like this? One moment the person is on the phone or laughing, and the next they are gone, eaten by the disease, with no clues at all?
Can we call mental illness what it is? A monster. A liar. Capable of eating up perfectly good (and especially perfectly creative, brilliant, artistant, high-achieving people?)
Can we get mad enough at the DISEASE
Can we have enough dis-ease about this to stop pointing fingers at family members who “must have known” and coworkers “should have said something.”
Because I believe that when those close to the ones we have lost say there was “ no indication in the last few days,” they mean it.
Just like there was no indication that an ovarian tumor the size of a grapefruit was growing on my left ovary.
And don’t think I don’t live in a place where I know it can come back again. It came silently once before. Today, if you didn’t know about that time in my life, you might wonder why a tear streaks down my cheek in the waiting room of the doctor’s office. It’s a routine visit, after all, and needles are only used to draw blood to test my hormone and cholesterol levels. My reaction might make you think that I have too much anxiety. I am being ridiculous. I am overreacting.
You would be wrong. I am reacting to my truth and my pain and my history and my present fears.I know a teeny-tiny bit about how it feels to have history with a disease that threatens to define me. But my scars don’t show on the outside. I can hide them and wear the painful truth on the inside. I can cover it all with clothing and makeup and a smile.
I want to remember what it felt like to be offered platitudes, explanations, theories, and even cold-hard facts during my own season of intense pain.
So I feebly try to do the thing that my best friend did during my horrible bout with cancer.
She didn’t have cancer and she didn’t understand, but she grabbed my hand and she squeezed it hard.
She picked me up in her car and drove me to get my favorite meal. She looked me straight in the eye and didn’t look away or try to manufacture words. She showed me the ministry of presence.
And her presence was the one thing I desperately needed in the midst of the strongest identity crisis and most intense pain of my life.
And so I offer here the ministry of my presence. Maybe we can sit and you could tell me some of the battles, of the loss, the fear, and the stories that have injured you and that make up the patchwork of your life. And maybe I could tell you mine.
You will not try to pick up and walk in my cancer shoes, and I would not try to put on yours.
Dear friend with depressive episodes or anxiety that claws at your life,
I don’t know what darkness you have faced as a little girl or just yesterday. What black hole you felt down deep inside with no way out. But I do know that that pain floods like a dam that has been broken when given the right set of circumstances.
So I quietly acknowledge these recent losses are rightfully painful for you even more so than for me. And I kneel with you and cry at the wreckage.
Of course I want you to know we are here, that someone is always there. And that hotlines exist. I’ll post resources below because they are real with real people and real love behind them.
I offer no words~ only my hand.
I love you. I will not stop showing up, reaching out a hand, telling you over and over that you are loved. I will look straight into the monster’s eyes, sitting next to you. It’s all I know to do.
1 Corinthians 13:12: “For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.”
P. S. and Resources:
If you are in the dark right now, you can call someone for help: HOTLINE: 1 (800) 273-TALK (8255)
I reached out to a dear friend who I know has had a long battle with depression and bipolor disease. I wanted to better understand.
Here is what she shared with me when I asked what this disease feels like, and what I as a friend can DO for her. (Maybe ask someone in your life?)
“Depression is a chronic and sometimes debilitating dis-ease. We live afraid of ourselves, just like your fear of cancer returning. A depressed person can be okay and then not okay. Suddenly. Without warning. Often others don’t see it coming because WE don’t see it coming. Suicidal ideations are an unpredictable and ravenous beast. And even the meds aren’t always armor enough. In the darkness we will not believe your words. We feel utterly, terrifyingly alone. The people I do get brave enough to reach out to when I think I might be in danger are the people who are here all the time. The people who ask all the time. The people who listen all the time. Who know how to hear the subtle spiraling in my words or my slow isolation or mention of too many naps. And sadly, on the worst days, my brain might even forget them. It won’t always be enough. No matter how much you love us. But love anyway. Risk anyway. On the chance that it will be enough.”
Things you can DO for someone in your life with depression:
Pray with and for her. Plant scripture and truth about who she is.
Buy your friend suffering from depression a package of classes at the swankiest yoga studio (or gym) in town and offer to pick her up and take her.
Buy her a massage, a weighted therapy blanket, or a body brush for dry brushing.
Ask her if she’s having trouble affording her therapist.
Offer to go for a walk.
Ask if she needs physical touch. Hold her hand or stroke her hair or give her a scalp massage.
Ask if you can clean her room. Put fresh sheets on her bed. Make it smell nice. Put out fresh flowers and send her to take a nap. Wake her to a warm meal.
Bring smoothie packs. It’s hard to eat when you’re depressed. Drinkable nutrition helps.
Invite her to your home. She may need a change of scenery but noisy public places can feel terrifying.
I love that my heartbeat was the first one you heard and that my hand the first to hold yours. That God entrusted broken me with you is humbling and overwhelming.When I first became a mother to you I had no idea. About so many things.For starters:I had no idea that you would say some form of “mom” or “mama” or “mommy” a dizzying number of times a day. Every. Day. For. Years. Or that I would follow you around for months on end cleaning up messes. (Eventually I got a clue that “messes” were a stage not to be outgrown. I surrendered and began to make messes WITH you. I love that part. You taught me that messy memories are the best.)
I didn’t know that I would hum the tunes of Disney movies daily. Or that I would pretend I know how to dance with you and your sister in the kitchen. You took my hand and led me to those places and it awakened something in me. Thank you. I had no idea that you, my blue-eyed boy, would humor the young girl in me and find a jacket and a flower and play “wedding.” Your toddler hand would take mine and dance. Your smile reflected that of your father’s and it halted me. Your scraped knees and tree-climbing and endless curiosity exhausted me some days. But I found my true calling in those moments. You led me by the hand to the mission of being a mom.
I had no idea that in 3rd grade, 7 years into our dance, you would flash your toothless grin over your backpack in the hall of that elementary school. And that your doing so would undo me. That I would fight to breathe through tears as I walked to my car, knowing that this was a milestone. One that needed to be fully felt and photographed. And held. The only camera I had was my heart, and so there it has stayed. Frozen in time. Just like the image I hold of those handfuls of flowers you gave me. Over and over, plucked from the backyard. Dandelions and daisies were never so beautiful.
I had no idea that laundry would overtake me. And that I would lose some of myself in it. That some days I would feel like that unmatched sock, wondering where I belonged. Existing between the changing, the feeding, the shopping, the cleaning, the rocking, the bottles and bibs.
You didn’t stay in any of those stages very long. You moved on and I jogged alongside you. I covered myself up in room-mom duties. I researched creative snacks for Valentine’s Day and marked school picture days on my calendar. I sewed Halloween costumes. I re-learned multiplication tables and wandered around school carnivals while you tried to win a fish or a new friend.
I didn’t know that I would see your passions before you did. And that I would push you out of your comfort zone toward them. I often doubted myself, but never you. I had no idea that my brain would fail to work when you were sick or that my heart would ache alongside anything that injured yours. Or that I would Google “how to treat a gecko bite” and other ridiculous scenarios that I had no clue how to handle.
The calendar spins around a few more times. You are a teenager.
Boy of mine? We play tennis. And I remember my Chris Everett racquet and how it felt to hold it in my hand on that court when I was 12. I sit on the edge of your bed as you play guitar and I try to pluck a few insights about your day out of you. I pack lunches. I pack your tennis bag. I make sure you have pants that fit.
And I pack more lunches.
I have laughed with you until my stomach hurt and my eyes watered.
I have cried. A lot. But in your presence I am mostly strong. I try hard to have conviction and answers to questions and snacks when you’re hungry and appointments when you feel sick.I have worried. A lot. But in your presence I am decisive. I calm you and have courage and your favorite dinner when you have a bad day.
I supply a fresh box of Kleenex and we go out for sushi when you are confused.
It’s what I do. It has become who I am. A mom.
And now, you stand in our kitchen before your last day of school as you have a thousand mornings. We measure each other by the fireplace. Suddenly you are taller than me.I only cry after you have swept past me, backpack flung and murmuring ” Don’t forget that I have graduation practice this afternoon.” And finally, through the now-closed door:”Love you mom.”
I stop right here in the kitchen where dirty dishes are piled and remnants of your morning routine surround me. To be thankful.
Because the truth is that at each stage you have blessed me in ways immeasurable. In fistfuls of flowers and doodles and the day-to-day knowing of you. Through your guitar music and all the hours I have sat on bleachers cheering for you. Your crayons and concerts have marked my place in the world.
It’s absurd how much I love you.
I had no idea that my entire world could abandon its axis and jump to revolve around you. And how much of me it would take to do so. And how now, teetering on the edge of you being on your own, I can’t imagine my axis jumping again when you are gone and on your own.
The dance is changing again. I miss the days when the scariest thing we did was climb the tall slide or go to the deep end of the swimming pool. It’s a big, confusing world out there. I want to look into your sweet face of yesterday and say “I’m sorry for disappointing you.” Because I’m not nearly as perfect as you saw me at 4 and 6 years old.
Can I tell you a secret that I tried to keep from you but is the truth? I am riddled with flaws. I stumbled into motherhood with lots of baggage. You have discovered some of this already. You now know that I bake (a lot) when I’m angry or sad. You scatter from the kitchen in self-defense, returning to help me consume the culinary manifestations of my mood. You’ve also surely noticed that I have ADD and at the same time I am a perfectionist. Which means I like things perfect. But not for very long. Ridiculous, I know.
My mother’s prayer today is to be able to point you to the ONE who will always have grace and forgiveness when mine has run dry. To show you how empty we need to be to allow the filling of the Holy Spirit, and to introduce you to the ONE who doesn’t get tired or bitter. To run to our God. Our God who never gets angry, even when you ask what’s for dinner or where you can you find your khaki pants. For the hundredth time. Because the reality of being a good Mom to you? It is a painful and beautiful dance. My job is to encourage you to cling to a loving God who can really CAN patch your scabbed knees and steady you when shaken. The Father who is an incredible dancer and the REAL finder of lost things. And the Book that has all the answers that I don’t.
These truths might be just word arrows now. But I pray they will point you in the right direction.
Anything good I have added to your journey has come from Him, Beloved boy of mine
Thank you for painting my world with finger paints and firefly chases and ferris wheels. And for dancing with me in the kitchen.