Because mothering ain't no small thang...

After the umpteenth time I encountered something on the subject, I finally surrendered.

I get it.

I. get. it. now.

This life, this small, insignificant life is not so inconsequential in Your eyes. I have been bombarded and attacked from every side over the last few days. Every story, every conversation, every blog, every devotional that passed my eyes spoke of the same truth:

I see you. I see what you do. I see who you are. And I am pleased.

I won’t lie. I have been struggling with feeling irrelevant. What is it that I do? I mother, I teach, I work, I write, I worship. But how does that change the world? Isn’t there something heroic I should be doing? Something exotic? Something radical? Something more?

So over the last year, five times I have made myself available to uncomfortable situations. The take-a-deep-breath-and-say “here-I-am-send-me” kind. And five times the doors have slammed in my face. Really, Lord? I was willing to do whatever.

But I’m dense.

Until last week.

**Today I'm writing over at my friend Christy's One Fun Mom. Won't you read the rest over here and leave me a note so I know you stopped by?**

Letting go...

Helmets on they climb their scooters and take off. Wind beating their cheeks, giggles of excitement erupting from their throats, they race.

"Don't get too far ahead of me!" I shout as I walk behind them. All I can see is their backs but I know they are smiling as one foot makes contact with the pavement, propelling them forward faster than I can catch them and faster than my mother's heart can bear. And I feel the separation almost physically. 

I want to reach out and grab her by the arm pulling her back to me, to the protection of my embrace, away from the road, away from any danger. But she is already too far ahead. He can't even hear me any more when I shout his name. 

And I love watching them. Their growing muscles extending, finding the balance to master the small scooter, the thrill of speed all over their screams and laughter. 

They are headed for the street and my heart skips a beat. But I have given them instructions as to how fast they need to go and exactly where they need to stop and I have to trust that they will. I have to trust that the work I've put before this moment, the practice rounds, the conversations about danger will do their job. 

I have to trust them.

They are old enough to do this. I know that in my head but my heart cries out "not yet! it's too soon!" Time flies and does not stop for me. I'm not ready. But they are. 

And this will be the dance of our lives. The constant struggle towards independence as I let them go a little at the time, asking the Lord for wisdom to know how far, how fast, and when. Feeling the pain of separation breaking my heart but keeping a smile of my face as I cheer them on. Because this is what they were meant to do: to grow and leave, to spread their wings and fly. 

And I am left to trust.

To trust that the years we had with them were rich enough in wisdom and knowledge to make their own decisions when I'm no longer there to shout their names or remind them of my instructions. I have to let go and have faith that the God who brought them to my life in the first place will continue to walk with them as they are forging theirs. 

And to pray.

To pray that they will never cease to seek, as they make their own choices, the wisdom of the same God whose help I sought in raising them. Because they know, now in their own adult hearts, that He is the only one who can be trusted to tell them exactly how fast to go and exactly where to stop.