A misty, foggy August morning. The green of the large backyard trees is tinged with saffron and ochre. Crows, deer, and assorted birds munch and peck at the crabapples hanging from heavy branches or fallen on the wet, cold grass – more meadow than lawn at present.
These seasons come where the time to write becomes shoved into nooks and crannies of packed days. Or, the sorting pile in my brain is too high and scattered to find a blank page.
Do you ever find it more tempting to waste time when life is busier? As if somehow an hour of procrastination will build a sort of moat, or buffer, between you and the tower of responsibilities? It never works, though. Kind-of like when I hid with a book as a kid, hoping Mom would forget about me. Haha.
In times of change, fear and excitement begin an awkward dance. Sometimes fear is in the lead, and then excitement tries to rule the floor. There’s a lot of stumbling around – a puppet waltz – where strings are held by unpracticed hands. I remember when I was fearless. I swept into new seasons, ready to tackle anything. There was no trip too long, no job I couldn’t learn, no plan too daunting. I painted an entire house with toddlers all about, led a week of mountain biking at a youth detention center, moved a thousand miles away to a new city without a cell phone, flew in a Cessna with a barely-19-year-old pilot through mountain ranges to my hometown (we got lost following the wrong river, too), sang and acted in front of high schools and churches and fancy fundraising dinners while (foolishly) fighting pneumonia.
I could use an ounce of that tenacity, now.
Maybe the apprehension comes from a real place. Life teaches us that awful things do happen. Pain, sickness, sorrow, loss, unreachable goals, unfair advantages, uncaring hearts, deep misunderstandings. We don’t always come out at the top of the hill, triumphant. My own capacity has become shockingly stunted. The reserve tank has apparently fallen off the ATV, and the main tank has water in it or perhaps a dead rodent, because the engine is making diabolical noises, and sometimes refuses to start up at all.
When I felt much stronger and younger, when hope was everywhere, I prayed to God and knew it would be fine. Now that my heart and body feel more frail and worn-out, now that I have stared more evil in the face, I pray to God, but the tone is somewhat wistful. Maybe Trust is the thing with feathers, that perches in the soul. Trust is even more essential than hope, perhaps.
“Hope” is the thing with feathers
By Emily Dickinson
“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -
And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -
I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.
Trust is harder work than hope. I can hope things come out fine, but I trust that whatever lies ahead I will get through with the help and strength of a much, much more capable Hand than mine. Looking back at all the twisted trails, train de-rails, droughts, floods, fires and gales we have survived together, I have stopped wondering why and started wondering “wow”, and “where to, now?”
And this hope will not lead to disappointment. For we know how dearly God loves us, because he has given us the Holy Spirit to fill our hearts with his love. Romans 5:5
A lot of the fear feels like loss of control. If I can just manage things, stay on top of it. If I’m always watching, wary, my guard-post the highest on the wall, nothing can get past me. If there are thoughts, I will think them to annihilation. Actions necessary, I will be there. A fight, bring it. War of words, might as well concede defeat. I have weapons stashed and provisions cached. It sounds very Batwoman, but really, it’s just motherhood.
People say, “Let go and let God!” That sounds amazing. The trouble is, if we mothers (and fathers) have a speck of humility, we can recall times when the ball dropped or moments we should have been paying attention. I have noticed a trend in parents relative to the age continuum. As the graph of life ascends, the rosy glow on our experience of raising children grows bright and diffuses, like pink twilight clouds seen through a rain-drenched window. I’m glad the jagged edges of parenthood soften with time. Keeping it real is important, too.
Speaking of being honest, have you noticed that control is a miserable substitute for love? Real love is rooted in freedom. The time for playing at parks is over, and my careful watchfulness now tries to mask itself as help. When kids become adults, help is a loaded word. “Help” can be rope that holds things tight, wrapping around and pulling sometimes when it shouldn’t. “Help” can be a net to catch what is falling, but the same net turned upside down can trap and smother.
Am I trying to help, or am I soothing my own nerves through the illusion of control?
Is it our adult kids we struggle to let go of, or is it ourselves?
Will I ever give myself permission to breathe, or keep holding my breath forever?
Things must change in the parent/child relationship to keep pace with age, ability, capacity, and means. If not, it can be a stifling cocoon, or a web that sticks firmer with struggle. “Things bad begun make strong themselves by ill” (Macbeth). In order to keep the most beautiful, precious gifts of my life, they must be truly relinquished. No, I can’t control my brain’s thoughts or apprehensions, but I can give them up each time they pass through. Children do not love us more when we squeeze them tight. Love is not simply a feeling inside; it is so much more solid and meaningful than that! When your child walks in the room, that feeling? Joy. Compassion. Warmth. Connection. Peace. Emotion.
Love is more than feeling – it’s what you say when they aren’t around, it’s how you speak of them to others, it’s sacrifice, stepping into the background, holding space for their true emotions, listening when you want to talk, leaving things unsaid, letting something go. Knowing when the advice is given so you feel better, but might not be what they need.
Reader, I have little idea what I’m doing. We are all parents for the first time, every time. Writing this out is maybe a message to myself, a pep talk I would give to a friend I cared about. I am learning and working it out, doing my best like we all are.
In my heart of hearts I trust God is writing a wonderful story, a story for each of my children with the finest of threads, the most golden of pens. If I’m honest though, I catch myself white-knuckling it through still, some days. I can’t end this post with a trite phrase and a neatly wrapped bow, because like it or not, the awkward dance continues. This is no smooth, practiced waltz! The music playing over the speakers has never been heard before…the steps are strange… the wooden floor uneven… sometimes holding on…sometimes being held.
And we’re dancing.
Stories for Humans 