Public School, College, and Home

For years I joked about the “magic yellow bus that came and took children away.” This year it takes away three of mine.*

After sixteen years of teaching my children at home, five years of medical crises, and a whole lot of other reasons, I’m tired. This past May I began researching curriculum for this school year and I started crying. I looked at the beautiful sleeping face of our newest baby, and I knew beyond any doubt that I didn’t want to still be homeschooling until she graduated high school. The thought of another eighteen years of this lifestyle were NOT the way I wanted to live.

I thought back to the woman I was when I stepped out in faith and self-assurance and made the decision to tackle my kids’ education myself. I was twenty six years old back then, the mom of three small children. My eldest was four and a half, and the boys were almost two and brand spanking new. At no time did I think I’d be homeschooling for the next thirty four  years. It never occurred to me that I could be homeschooling until I was sixty.

Thirty four years. That’s how long it would be if I continued teaching until the baby graduated high school. It’s overwhelming to me to even write it. A friend of mine and I joke that you can’t “do the math” or you’d never be able to do anything, but in this case I can’t stop doing the math. I don’t want to homeschool for thirty four years. I just don’t.

I flirted with the idea of putting the children in school last year, but a hinky feeling and a general mutiny from the children put that on hold. Adding a new baby to the family pushed me over the edge, so I just closed my eyes and leaped. I’m so glad that I did. This school year has had the most peaceful beginning of any in years.

We prayerfully discerned what was best for each child, and my three extroverts are loving the crowded hallways and sea of faces in public school. They chatter away about recess, reading groups, and new friends. My two eldest sons are taking classes online and at the local community college through the dual credit program, and our eldest daughter is a college senior studying neuroscience. Which leaves me with only my 10 year old and the sweet new baby at home.

This one child just works best in complete silence, so the strange quietness in my house is suiting him to a T. He has his own learning nook by a picture window where he reads and works for most of the morning. We break for a walk with the baby after lunch, and then he learns until his siblings start coming home around 2:30. There’s a freedom for my child who has sensory issues to be able to be blessedly alone for most of his day, and in getting the one-on-one time with me that he desperately needs. He’s calmer and happier, and when his brother and sisters burst through the door in the afternoon, he’s got the reserves built up to roll with the chaos they bring in their wake.

During the day are these quiet hours when I just get to hang out with the baby. I haven’t had a baby without a toddler nearby since my eldest was born. I’d forgotten how fun it was to listen to screams of baby giggles without hearing “Do that to me, Mom” or “I need to go potty.” I have the time and the freedom to be just her mom for a little while each day, and it’s such a gift to us both. I have loved the joy of motherhood these past twenty-one years, but I’d forgotten about the quiet peace that can be found in the presence of a baby.

When I started homeschooling all those years ago, my husband and I agreed it was going to be a year-by-year and child-by-child decision. I confess that I lied. I thought I’d be doing it until the last child graduated and left my house. I was in it for the long haul. Then I suddenly wasn’t.

I woke up one morning and knew down to my bones that this was no longer the best option for every member of our family, and on that day I was done  teaching all but one. This is going to be an interesting year as they adjust to learning from someone who’s not me in a place that’s not here, and I adapt to a life with all this amazing silence and learn how to spend all of this extra time that I suddenly find on my hands.

 

*Figuratively speaking. I’m driving them not the bus.

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A Mother Gone, A Daughter Missing (part 2)

It’s been a few years since I wrote this piece, with help and approval from my mom, for a TBI survivors’ group. It is one of my favorite things I’ve ever written. I’m resharing it now because we’ve finally written a happy ending of sorts to it. Here’s part two of what is now a 3 part post. Thanks, Mom, for your help with this.

 

My mom sat on the couch in our living room holding our newest baby. She kissed his downy black hair, lifted him to her shoulder and said, “I don’t understand your life. I don’t understand how you got here.”

I knew instantly what she meant – this wasn’t supposed to be the life I had. Her daughter was never supposed to be a stay-at-home mom with a litter of children. I had been raised by a forward-thinking woman who had praised the promises of freedom and prosperity held in a small package of birth control pills. I can’t even begin to guess how often had she uttered the words “the rich get richer and the poor have babies” to me. It was said in a half joking ruffle-my-hair tone, but the message was always clear – having children would tie me down; having a lot of children would guarantee me a life of struggle. She couldn’t imagine why I would choose such a hard path for myself. Why hadn’t I listened and learned?

I smiled at her and said “I know you don’t, Mom.” I lifted my sleeping son from her arms and said, “I know that he doesn’t make sense to you.”

She just shook her head and said, “This was never the plan we had for you, you and I. You should be in Congress by now.”

I think back to that conversation more often than I probably should. In anyone else’s mother, I would think those words were harsh and condemning. From my own mother, I know that they are honest. She doesn’t know how we got to this point.

When I was 14 years old, my mother suffered a Traumatic Brain Injury (TBI). When she awoke from the resulting coma, she had lost 7 years of my life. The teenage girl standing in front of her was a complete stranger, and had no connection to the little girl she remembered. While her brain has healed as much as it is going to, she still doesn’t have an intact and cohesive memory of those missing years. She describes what she does have as a collection of still photos and movie clips. She has said that she feels detached from the girl in those memories, the same way feels about a celebrity in a gossip magazine – she knows who all the players are but it doesn’t feel personal.

Her sense of disconnect is not helped by the fact that in the years that followed that event, I mostly lived somewhere other than with her. For a variety of reasons – some personal and some academic- I lived in the same house as my mother for what adds up to just over another two years total if you piece it all together. In the short amount of time that I lived in her house, she was not yet the woman she is today – she was mentally more on the level of a child or young teen and was not capable of being any kind of mother to me. (She freely admits this, in case you were wondering. I’m not telling tales out of school here.) When I was 18, I moved 12 hours away and it would be years before we spent more than a few days together in any given year.

We have talked of this often, my mother and I. On the days when she can articulate it, she says that she feels as if her daughter were stolen from her at age 7…kidnapped…and that somehow she was handed back a woman in her early 20’s, fully formed and already engaged to be married. I had made the unfathomable decision to postpone finishing my college education, and was planning a wedding years before she would have thought prudent. In the years to come, I had baby after baby and never did finish that degree. Those decisions will never make sense to her. How could the girl she had placed so carefully on a certain path have ended up wandering in the opposite direction?

With no memory of the events of many of the major events of my life, she is mystified by how we got to the place I’m at today. She loves the grandchildren, and rejoices to meet every one, but wonders why there are so many. How did the girl she knew become the woman she knows?

Her daughter is missing.

It’s not about genetics, because clearly I’m still here. She’s missing the girl she knew. What happened to the child who dreamed of politics and had plans laid out for her life before she even left elementary school? That girl was still charging ahead until that fateful day at age 14, when my mom died and I had to learn to live without her.

It was while living without her that I discovered boys and learned about heart-break. I went out into the world searching for love and intimacy without a guide to help me understand what that looked like. I made horrible choices and met awful people who wrote themselves on the history of my life. Eventually I met the other kind…the good and honest ones. I had learned to recognize their value, so I held on tight.

I left the Church, and that decision was met with disinterest by those around me. With nothing to call me back, I drifted lost for many years. It wasn’t until my baby lay dying in the NICU that I hit my knees and rediscovered my faith. I studied and learned, prayed and listened. I became a woman of strong and quiet (and sometimes not-so-quiet) faith. It became my rock and my support.

I struggled with the after-effects of contraceptive choices on my body, and learned to love the babies from my unplanned pregnancies. I had become a Catholic woman a 12-hour drive away from my still-healing mother, and nearly 20 years beyond the girl she remembered. Eventually, I found my voice and began to write. I poured out my heart on a blank computer screen, and began to learn to know and love the woman I had become. That’s a lot of life to have lived, and her memory is missing almost all of it.

I sat on the couch with her this past December, listening to a tape of the mother I had lost. After a few minutes, we heard the bright chirp of my own girlishness and she sighed. We listened to the voices of the people we miss most and cried together – for my mother who is gone, and for her daughter who is missing.

The daughter she lost

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A Mother Missing, A Daughter Gone (Part 1)

It’s been a few years since I wrote this piece, with help and approval from my mom, for a TBI survivors’ group. It is one of my favorite things I’ve ever written. I’m resharing it now because we’ve finally written a happy ending of sorts to it. Here’s part one of what is now a 3 part post. Thanks, Mom, for your help with this.

It’s been a long time since we lost my mom. There are days when it’s been so long that I can’t even remember what she was like. I no longer have the memories of her laugh or her voice anywhere in my mind. I don’t know the sound of her footsteps any longer. I can’t recall how she sounded when she sang. I no longer know the touch of her hand, or the comforting feeling of being held in her arms. The sure and powerful bulwark of my life had disappeared. She is so far gone from my mind that I sometimes wonder if the woman I knew ever existed.

I called her last week and asked her if she can remember being the woman she was. She said sometimes…when she sleeps. Which is fitting, because the only time I see the mom-who-was is in my dreams.

It’s been nearly thirty years years since we were out running errands and she ran a stop sign. A lifetime since a suburban slammed into the driver’s door and I lost the woman who was my mother….forever. I woke up in an emergency room strapped to a back board. She didn’t wake up at all – comatose, brain injured, with severe internal injuries – dying…

and then she lived.

Brain injuries and comas are strange things. No one tells you that in the hospital. You sit by the side of someone you love and hope that they will wake up so that you can take them home. Nobody prepares you for the fact that the person who wakes up may no longer be the person you loved.

They also don’t tell you that you’ll never be allowed to say that.

She died. The mom I knew died.I’ve said it over and over again through the years. Relatives cursed me for my insensitivity. Therapists got so frustrated that they yelled. Family friends begged me to stop saying something so ugly. I could not, because it was the truth.

I have gone back and read the journals I kept when I was 14 and 15, just the way that my mother taught me to do. I screamed and railed on paper my anger at the chaos my life had become. I shouted in indignation over family members who disappeared when our catastrophe became too uncomfortable for them to endure.What I cried out against with all that I had on those pages was the lie that somehow this person was my mother.

I’ve also read the journals that she kept during that first year back at home. She wrote of me, “There’s a girl in this house. I don’t know her. Her mother has died and she cries for her. I don’t like the crying and wish that she would stop. If she won’t stop crying then she should leave.” The daughter in her memory, the me she knew, was 7 years old. Her daughter was missing and she screamed at me demanding that I bring her girl back.

People tried to reason with her and said, “This is your daughter, right here.”

She would look at them and scream, “LIAR!

and she was right.

It had not taken very long for the people we were to be replaced by the very beginnings of who we would become. Those strangers were as foreign to us as they were to each other.

She had been a capable woman. That’s the first word that comes to my mind for her – capable. Strong, brilliant, independent, fiercely protective – and then suddenly broken. Every part of herself in which she had once taken pride had been stripped away from her. What was left was the raw truth of the woman who had been underneath, and that truth was ugly to behold.

The woman who had set out that day was gone, and we brought a frightened and confused monster home with us in September. All that was left of the woman she had been were anger and fear. She raged and roared at the world. She lashed out in a murderous fury, and I learned to hide and cringe in terror.

Healing took years. It was a slow painful crawl until we got to a place where the woman she became replaced what she was. But she was not the same. The confident ambitious woman had become timid and unsure. Her brilliant mind suffered from confusing lapses in memory. No longer protective, she was easily swayed and convinced. The hard shell of her had been smashed and what was left was still  determined, but humbled and kind.

She came to visit us ea while back and brought with her a cassette tape. After the rest of the house had gone to bed, she motioned to me with her awkward hands. “I have a treasure to share with you,” she said.

I sat next to her on the couch in the front room as she worked it into the tape player and pressed ‘Play.’ From out of its muffled speaker came the laugh of a woman I had lost. In that long ago voice, she sang and played with my younger brother. They sang of twinkling stars and the Good Ship Lollypop. A weight wrapped around my chest until I couldn’t breathe.

“That’s my mom…” I choked as the tears streamed down my face.

“I know,” she answered.

“She died.”

“Yes, I did.” Her cold fingers gripped mine tightly.

“You’re nicer now.”  I told her.

She nodded.

“But I miss her terribly.”

She reached up and wiped my face. “I know you do.”

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On The Funny Bone

Three years ago, my friend Calah Alexander dragged me to the Edel Conference. I was reluctant to go in the midst of our medical drama at home. She was right. It was exactly what I needed. This week, I’m getting ready to head off to Edel again. This time I know that it’s what I need, and I’m eager to get there. 

I thought I’d re-share my experience from way back then while I’m packing and getting ready to go now.

I didn’t want to go. I’ll start right there. Back at the beginning of the year, when I was in the midst of unplanned pregnancy/miscarriage drama, Calah from Barefoot and Pregnant wouldn’t take excuses from me when she bought my ticket. “You’re going to be ready for this break in July,” she had said. That was back in the simpler time before the mystery illness crashed into our lives bringing frustration and loneliness with it.

“I don’t play well with others.” I tried to tell her in June. She shook it off and said then I could play badly with her.

As July 1st arrived, I stared at the word Edel on my calendar, and sighed. It was one more obligation on a pile of “too much.” I read through the plans and saw that Friday night was set to begin with a cocktail party and crazy shoe contest. I handed my check card to my eldest daughter, told her my budget, and let her shop. A few days later, these arrived in the mail

Glittery cupcake shoes were enough to break a crack through my fog, a small one. Shoes meant a party, and a party means people. The extrovert in me clicked her heels for joy. People!

I’ve made no secret of my loneliness. Reeling from tragedy to tragedy for the past two and a half years has stripped away all but the most devoted friends and even family. I have the people who live in my house, plus one close friend left in Dallas. When you add in a parish that has been spectacularly unresponsive in helping or ministering to our needs, I’m in the midst of a desert. I ache for people and community, and the loneliness of here is almost as crippling as the recent tragedies.

In spite of my isolation, I didn’t want to be around strangers. I’m still not playing well with others these days, and didn’t want to have to be fake happy all weekend. My emotional responses can be off after the past few months, and I didn’t want to cry in front of people who would judge me. My daughter wouldn’t listen. She was a girl with a plan, and that plan included me.

Her BFF of five years has suddenly become much more than that to her, and she needed to get to San Antonio for a DTR (that’s a define the relationship talk, y’all.) She could drop me in Austin and then drive the remaining two hours by herself. (If you’ve been reading me for a while, this is the same kid who asked my husband’s permission to write to his daughter. We like him.) She’d be back on Sunday to pick me up. She had decided that I needed to go, and she was taking my means of escape.

 I walked into the lobby of the Omni on Friday afternoon and exhaled. I silently prayed “Just help me to hold it together this weekend.” I looked around, and my heart sank as I realized that I knew no one.

Within five minutes I heard, “Shut up! You’re Rebecca Frech! I love you!” and I was enveloped in a warm hug that left me breathless. It was a feeling I was to experience often during the weekend. I apologize to the women whose warmth overwhelmed me, and I broke down sobbing in their arms. The isolation has broken me over the past few months, and I was overcome to no longer be alone.

By the time Calah and I were dressing for that night’s party, laughter had replaced tears and we giggled like college girls. We checked for VPL (visible panty lines) and fixed one wardrobe malfunction before heading down to the party.

After the party, we ran up to our room, threw on pajamas, and ventured back down to the lobby to play Cards Against Humanity with the other slightly wrong, dirty minded, absolutely hilarious Catholic women. We shed our identities as wives and mothers at some point and were just ourselves… and the people we are are HILARIOUS! I kept finding myself wondering where these women had been my whole life. After years of thinking myself an anomaly, I had found my people at 2am in Austin.

Saturday afternoon, the CAH girls slipped into the back row of seats as the speaker sessions began. We snorted with laughter and giggled inappropriately, tweeted and texted, and played in that back row until the speaker took the mic. I can’t tell you what she said, although the tears on the cheeks around me said that it must have been amazing. I couldn’t hear her over the swirling in my own head. This was the living Church. This was the Body of Christ, and I was happily taking my place within it.

For a lot of years, I studied hard and tried to be smart enough to be part of the brain of the Body of Christ, and then I tried to be generous enough to belong in the heart. I admired those whose humility allowed them to be the feet which carry us, or the hard work of the hands who do the work, but knew I wasn’t the hands or the feet. It was only after a weekend filled with karaoke, off-color jokes, squeeze-you-breathless hugs, and laughing until the mascara ran down our cheeks, that I have at last found my place upon the Body of Christ’s funny bone. It’s where I belong. The weird thing about that funny bone – it can make you laugh, but it’s also the part of the elbow that you lean on when you pray.

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The Smell of Home

The baby is asleep on my chest, the 5-year-old is snuggled so close that she has my left elbow pinned to my side, and the 7-year-old is seated between my feet, leaning against my knees. Clearly these children of mine have no concept of the idea of personal space. I’ll be honest, it’s enough to make an extrovert feel pretty claustrophobic. Plus, I have to pee, and I don’t know how I can do that without waking the two girls up.

And then my 7-year-old son nonchalantly turned his head to the side and sniffed my leg.

He sniffed me!

“Did you just smell me?” I asked him.

He got this goofy shy smile he has, and said, “You smell like home and being safe.”

At that, his 5-year-old sister peeked open an eye and chimed in with “You smell good and safe.” And then she sniffed me too.

As I sat there trying very hard to not pay attention to my bladder, I distracted myself by thinking about what an amazing gift it is to be safety and home to these small-ish people. The trust that they have in my abilities to heal injuries and broken hearts and to keep the boogey-man at bay is humbling. I’m just an ordinary woman, but to them I’m so much more than that. I’m MOM.

I eventually slipped out from underneath their warm selves (Freedom!!!!) and came back again, settling myself on the opposite end of the couch. My husband gave me a knowing wink seeing that I’d managed to carve out a little elbow room for myself. It lasted just long enough for the dog to see that my lap was empty and take full advantage of that. I guess I smell like home to him too.

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Next to Godliness

This summer has been one of us staying purposefully close to home. After a few years of us being on a constant run, we made the decision to slow our pace down, and allow our summer vacation to be a break from the never-ending whirlwind in which we live. We’ve taken the time to focus our energies on our children, our home, and our relationship with God. Unfortunately, no matter how great our plans have been, we can’t find the peace that we’re seeking.

We like to think that our home is a place where God is welcome, where we invite Him into our family and our lives, but can He be found in the cluttered chaos which is my home?  Not “Is He here?” but can He be found?  Or does the mess and the chaos shield His calming presence from us?

Messiness is very tedious and exhausting not just to my soul, but to my eyes and mind as well.  In all of that fatigue, where is God?  He is ever-present, to be sure, but who has the energy to seek Him?  I know that I do not.

I have spent the past few weeks fasting and praying in an effort to purge from myself that which is not “of God.”  I have left this part alone.  It is the most difficult because it is not just myself, but the whole of my family which has fallen into this trap.  I am truly beginning to see it as a trap of the Evil One.  There is a reason behind the cliche “cleanliness is next to godliness”  I have scoffed at this saying many times, but now am seeing it with clear eyes at last.  The mess is a barrier to the sound of God.  It is a wall between my Creator and myself.

I will be spending the weeks from now until the new school year begins in penitential cleaning.  Sweeping the cobwebs from my house and the clutter from my soul.  We will begin our new school year in a house which has been prepared to welcome the Lord to enter in, because if He knocked on my door today I’d be too embarrassed to let Him inside.

 

photo credit: dandelions in a bowl on my counter. I took it. Don’t steal it.

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It’s His Turn to Go

I’m the parent who gets to go, always. My husband works insane hours, so that means that when one of the children (usually Ella) has a trip, it’s me who gets to go. San Antonio, Los Angeles, Nashville, Louisville, Atlanta, St Louis, etc.; he stays home while I hop on a plan or take an epic road trip across the country with our child(ren). This summer it’s going to be different.

Ella will be in Venice Beach later this month for a skating competition, and her soon-to-be-16 year-old brother, Lincoln, is going with her….. So is their dad.

When I first suggested it to him in April, he was absolutely against it. He had no interest in going to LA, and he was happy to stay comfortably at home. As the date for them to leave gets closer, he’s starting to sing a slightly different tune. He’s actually getting excited to go. If you know him, you know that’s a huge thing.

They’ve decided to go to DisneyLand while they’re out there. None of them have ever been, and I’ve made them all to take lots of pictures. I know them, so I expect that they will take maybe five pictures between the three of them. I’m letting go and deciding that that’s okay, that life should be lived, it doesn’t have to be documented.

Ella is already planning to take them both to her favorite food joint by the beach (the Cairo Cowboy, baby!) and to teach her dad our methods for finding old and funky churches for Sunday Mass. Lincoln is excited for the adventure, and my husband is excited to just get to be their dad.

I often wish that we had the time, money, and resources for big family vacations together, but we just don’t. (One day of Disney for our family is close to $1000 just for tickets.) Instead we’re finding a lot of joy in these mini-vacations with just a couple of the children at a time. I think it’s something we will be planning for the next few years, and hopefully a few of them won’t revolve around basketball or skating contests.

We want to show our kids the world and let them see what is out there, but that can be hard when there are so many kids and a dad with a busy schedule. Taking turns is working for us right now, and this time it’s his turn to go. I’ll be right here when he gets back – eager for the stories and the sad five little pictures that they will have taken along the way.

 

 

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Here’s to My Useless Friends

“You seem a lot happier since we moved to Texas,” my 17 year old son told me the other day.

“I do?” I asked him. “That’s not surprising. I am a lot happier.”

“I think it’s your friends here,” he said.”They make you smile.”

He’s right. They do. When we moved to Texas six years ago, I made a conscious decision to find friends who were fun and knew how to laugh.

My Oklahoma friends are all nice women, but too many of them were friends of mine because of convenience. Our children played together, and our friendships revolved around our children. Their kids took dance classes, learned Latin, played sports, did boy scouts, etc. with my children. We were on committees together.We worked together. We helped each other in our vocation as mothers. We spent a lot of time together, and grew used to having each other around.

They were great working friendships, and that was the problem with them. Our relationships were revolved completely around the work of being homeschooling mothers. Eventually our lives were so enmeshed that neither side could walk away because to disentangle ourselves from each other would be so disruptive to all of our lives.

When you can’t be yourself  and find that you are parsing your words carefully and tiptoeing around each other in order to maintain the status quo, what you have is not a true friendship.

It wasn’t until I moved away from it all that I realized how exhausting it all had been. I decided that this time I would do better, and I have. Since moving to Texas, I’ve only been keeping and seeking out useless friends. The reality I have learned is that if people have a use and a purpose in your life, you’re not really their friend.

I have and maintain lots of acquaintances these days. There are the people I meet on committees and the parents of my children’s friends. I like them all and we are friendly. We chat and hang out, laugh and enjoy each other’s company. We trade favors and recipes but we are not truly close.

Then there are the few I love, a few from there and a few from here. The ones with whom I share my authentic self. The ones who bring nothing more than joy, peace, and comfort to my life. The ones without a purpose. They are the ones I keep for fun, the ones who make me truly happy just because I know them. They are my wonderful, beloved and truly useless friends.

I hope they find me useless, too.

 

photo: it’s my Bunko group – some of the most useless women I know.

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The Hardest Part Is Just Watching The Train

When my eldest children were two or three, I thought the hardest struggles of parenting were potty training them and getting them to stop biting each other.

When they were 10, I thought that the hard part of parenting was protecting their childhoods from the culture around them that introduced them to adult topics when they were still small-ish children.

When they were 12-13, I thought that the hardest thing I’d do as a parent was to guide them through the changes of puberty with its mood swings, flaring tempers, changing bodies, and first crushes.

When they were 15, I thought it was the heartbreak of mean girls, unrequited love, social pressures, and growing up.

Now they are in their late teens and early twenties, and I’m finding that I was unprepared for the heartache and worry that can come from being the parent of an adult or nearly-adult person.

The hardest part of being their mom is no longer being the ultimate authority, there are parts of their own lives that they are the sole authority on, and yet I can see, thanks to my age and life experience, the tragedies and heartaches heading their way. I was unprepared for the strength that it would take to stand and watch the train of pain and heartbreak speeding towards them and know that I’m helpless to do anything other than watch them get hit.

People talk about hindsight being 20/20, but they don’t talk about how it can make foresight 20/20 as well. Watching my children make really bad life choices is horrible. Knowing that the consequences will be horrendous and that none of the warnings I have shouted will be heard is devastating.

And they don’t listen. For the record, I didn’t listen to my parents either, but my children should be different. They should listen to me.

But they don’t. they stare at the headlight speeding towards them, dazzled and mesmerized by its glow. And we’ve reached the point in life where I’m not able to protect them. I can’t shove them out of harm’s way. All I can do is stay nearby to pray for those standing on the tracks, and to help bandage the wounds of the recently flattened.

Dear Lord, Please give me the strength and wisdom necessary to parent these almost grown children of mine. Grant me the strength to not meddle in their lives even when I know the train is coming, the fortitude to stay by their sides even when I can see the pain that is inevitable, and the generosity required to not indulge in saying “what were you thinking?” or “I told you so.”  Please give me the softness and grace necessary to help bandage their broken hearts and turn them gently back towards You. Help me to be the mother they need as they leave my protection and learn to navigate the world on their own.

 

Photo credit: Aleš87 via VisualHunt / CC BY-NC-SA

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Through it all, there has been you

Twenty-one years ago today, the skies were gray and threatening rain. I wasn’t worried about the weather. No matter what happened, it would be perfect.

It was a year and a half since you’d called me and said very simply, “I think it’s time we go shopping for rings.” I’d been sitting on the floor folding socks and underwear, but it was suddenly one of the best moments of my life.”

Before I knew it, I was standing in a white dress, fidgeting with my long gloves, and preparing to walk toward you, and the rest of our lives.

All nerves and nervousness, that evening flew by, and then I was your wife. I’ll admit now that  I had no idea at all what that was going to mean.

We welcomed some babies and buried others. We cheered on first steps and lamented last ones. We’ve created home and left it behind. We’ve plotted, planned, and dreamed and then welcomed the unexpected.

Through it all, there has been you. And there has been us.

Twenty-one years ago, I thought I knew what love looked like. I looked into your eyes as we said our vows and I knew that that was love. And it was. But it is so small compared to what was to come.

We vowed to each other “for better or for worse,” hoping there would be more of the better than the worse. We had no idea that the “worse” was necessary. It was in those darkest moments that we learned to cling to each other. It was in those moments that love grew strong. I’m no longer afraid of the things life has planned for us.

So, my Love, here’s to the next twenty-one years. Let them be what they will be, so long as I can be by your side.

 

 

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