August 31, 2011

• {Sometimes Mama’s Cry Too)

  To my oldest son,

  I know that tomorrow is your first day at a new school.

  I know you are scared.  I know you are nervous and wondering how it will all go.

  I don’t miss the way your eyes start to fill with tears when you have asked me at least three times in the past week or two why we can’t just homeschool.

  I pretend not to notice the tears. Not because I don’t care, but because I know that the course is set. At least for now.  You are going to school.  For me to give you any hope of something other than that would be a false hope.

  I know it is going to be a huge change.  To go from a school of 50 – 60 kids into a school of 350, where you are one of 120 third graders instead of 1 of 10.  Its all new and unfamiliar and when I asked you what you are worried about you said “Everything.”

  “How will I know what to do at lunch?  How will I know where to go?  How will I get around when I don’t know the building?”  These are questions that are in the forefront of your mind.

  I reminded you that you have been to the school before. I reminded you that we will go to openhouse tonight and you’ll get to look around again, see where your classroom is and so forth. 

  But I also know you. I know how you hang back in new situations.  How it is hard for you to make friends. How you stand on the sidelines and let everyone else get picked first. How you wouldn’t want to ask where to go or what to do, but would just watch for someone to hopefully show you the way. 

  I know that sometimes we push you into situations that you are uncomfortable with.  Like football camp this year. You didn’t want to go.  You cried that first day when I dropped you off at the field and I practically pushed you out there with the other kids.  I hung around to make sure you were OK, but it pains me to see you sad or uncomfortable.  Daddy and I push you like that because we love you.  Because we don’t want you to grow up fearing new things or being afraid to try something you haven’t done before.

  And you were fine.  You absolutely loved football camp. You didn’t want it to end.  And we knew that would happen.  That’s why we pushed you.  But…that didn’t make it any easier for me to send you out there with tears in your eyes.  Even though we prayed together and asked God to make you brave, my heart hurt for you.

  You are so strong and brave and gentle and kind.  You are smart and caring and wise.  I couldn’t be more proud of you!

  Last night I talked with Daddy about your fears about school.  I told him how you are scared. How you get tears in your eyes when you talk about the first day of school.  I told him how you don’t know any boys in your classroom. 

  After Daddy had fallen asleep and I lay there listening to his gentle snoring and rhythemic breathing, I put myself in your shoes.  Nine years old.  Without Mom and Dad. Thrust into a big new world. 

  What if you start to cry and no one notices?  What if you can’t find your way to lunch and you wander around lost in a sea of backpacks and jeans and other third graders?  What if you need me and I can’t be there?

  It breaks my heart.  I don’t know if you know this, son, but sometimes Mama’s put on a brave smile just for your sake.  But inside, they’re crying too.  I lay there in bed…thinking of you. Worried for you. Feeling like I am somehow letting you down.  Like its my job to protect you from everything in this life that could ever hurt you or make you sad.  The hot tears rolled silently down my cheeks.  I brushed them away with the back of my head and felt the ache of a sob that was stuck in my throat.

  You don’t know this yet, but maybe when you are a Daddy you will understand that parenting is nothing but a long process of letting go.  I lay there wishing that you were still a baby.  And that I could snuggle you against me and make sure no one makes you cry or says mean words to you or loses you in the crowd.  That I could keep you by me always. 

  But I know that is not life.  I know that if you don’t try out your wings, you won’t ever learn how to fly.

  And your Heavenly Father and mine…He reminded me.  Yes, Mothering is a process of letting go, but its not a release into nothing-ness, its a release of your hand from mine, gripping so tightly, and into the hands and arms of Someone much bigger than I am.  Who loves you so much more than I ever could.  And if you are crying at your desk…HE sees. He cares.  He will put His arms around you and comfort you and help you to know what to do.  Its just my job to make sure that you know that about Him.

  So I keep that smile on my face and tell you that you’re going to be fine.  That probably within a week you’ll know that school like the back of your hand.  That I am sure you will make new friends.  I don’t tell you that I am scared for you.  But I tell Jesus.  And I know that He hears and He cares and He will watch over you.

  Because if I spend my life holding on too tightly, I crush you.  If I don’t allow you to grow and change and face tough things, how do you ever learn how to pray? 

  So with a smile on my face and a choking sob in my throat, I will watch you walk down that hallway and into your classroom. 

  And I will get in my van and drive away.  Leaving you.  But not alone.  I will talk to Jesus about you and He will remind me that He knew you before you were ever born.  That He understands you and He will be there for you.

  And I will choose peace. And rest. 

  You’re gonna be OK.  It’s all gonna be OK.  Because His arms are big enough to hold both of us.

  • 2:49 pm
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