...now the new mother, that leaky vessel,
begins to nurse her child,
beginning the long goodbye.
(Kathleen Norris, "Ascension")
Carefully, reverently, she lifts the blanket covering her daughter. Her eyes travel over the sweet sleeping face, the still hands, the soft hair...perfection. All where it should be...just as God created her.
The hospital garage is cool and quiet. No nurses stand by to ooh and ahh, no family members are able to come in and share this time with her. Her beloved daughter lies peacefully on a gurney beside the ambulance, never to open her eyes again. Never to smile; never to respond to her mother's voice. This is not the "hello" of birth, but the "goodbye" of death. My mother touches my baby's sister's face for the last time. Her 21 busy, fruitful and blessed years of life on earth are over.
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When we become a parent, we do not look forward to the possibilities of suffering. We naturally look ahead for our children, but these long gazes down the future tend to be for happy things--smiles, toddling, baby talk, cuddles, and then on to medical school and financial success. What mother or father in their right mind looks deep into a newborn baby's eyes and coos "oh, sweetheart, I can see it now...you'll be bullied at school for your overbite, have a boyfriend who abuses you, and won't be able to find a full time job until you are 30. We are so excited!"
And who really, truly can believe that one day that little progeny of ours will willfully walk out of our front door never to return as our dependent child? Yes, in a sense they will need you. But you know what? They no longer will need your listening ear for every detail of their daily lives. Suddenly, it seems, they will have friends you have never met. Dates you know nothing about. Apartments or dorm rooms you may never get a chance to visit. Griefs and problems of their own they will never share, even with you. You who poured your soul out for their benefit. The umbilical cord is finally, irrevocably cut. And the pain will bring you to your knees.
I had to physically restrain myself when one of my children had a bad experience at their work place...I wanted to march right down there, hands on hips, and say to this manager "How DARE you treat my child like this!! What kind of an idiot manager would treat ANYONE this way? I'm telling on you to your supervisor, and you'd better give my child a raise for all the trouble you've caused!"
OK, mamma bear, I had to remind myself...this "child" is now 18 years old, and beyond your legal defensive screaming. But...but...I don't want any of my children to suffer! Please, let me straighten the path! Let me remove all the rocks, let me make sure the sun shines every day and no bad guys lurk in the shadows! Let me believe they will live forever...
Because that's what it really is. We look down that long, winding path and have that sinking realization that there is nothing we can really do to stop the lurking bad guys. We will be dead and gone, and our children will be walking that path without us to be their personal body guards. In fact, to be truthful, we may continue to walk our own lonely paths while their journey comes to an end. That is probably the hardest and most painful thought of all.
This is the core. This is a secret grief all parents carry. This can be tapped at any random moment, and will bring tears during church sermons, movies, beautiful sunsets, and even coffee commercials. The deep, abiding belief that "behold, children are a gift from the LORD (Psalm 127:3)" and they really are not our property. God can call them back to Himself at any time.
Should this be grievous? Should we complain? Or should we be like Job, who after losing all his children in one disastrous moment, says "The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord"?
I don't know about you, but seeing my mother lose a child and witnessing friends lose children, it seems like God is asking a lot for a "Job" response. And yet--He does. He asks us to back away...to give up...to trust Him with the future and with things most precious to us. He asks us to hold our children in a light grasp, ready to offer them up in a few fleeting years, or in a moment of time. He asks us to say "this is another human being...independent...made in His image for His purposes, not for mine."
Am I ready for that? Probably not. I'm in practice. I have quit giving (well, not so much!) unsolicited advice. I don't call and leave voice messages on their phones (I'm a good girl and always text). I try not to say "so...met anyone special yet?" too often. I don't insist they clean their bedrooms in their apartment 600 miles away. I still tell them I love them. Regularly. So we shall see. God is working on my heart, one heartbreaking day at a time.
I shall close with my favorite parenting quotation of all time:
The hospital garage is cool and quiet. No nurses stand by to ooh and ahh, no family members are able to come in and share this time with her. Her beloved daughter lies peacefully on a gurney beside the ambulance, never to open her eyes again. Never to smile; never to respond to her mother's voice. This is not the "hello" of birth, but the "goodbye" of death. My mother touches my baby's sister's face for the last time. Her 21 busy, fruitful and blessed years of life on earth are over.
When we become a parent, we do not look forward to the possibilities of suffering. We naturally look ahead for our children, but these long gazes down the future tend to be for happy things--smiles, toddling, baby talk, cuddles, and then on to medical school and financial success. What mother or father in their right mind looks deep into a newborn baby's eyes and coos "oh, sweetheart, I can see it now...you'll be bullied at school for your overbite, have a boyfriend who abuses you, and won't be able to find a full time job until you are 30. We are so excited!"And who really, truly can believe that one day that little progeny of ours will willfully walk out of our front door never to return as our dependent child? Yes, in a sense they will need you. But you know what? They no longer will need your listening ear for every detail of their daily lives. Suddenly, it seems, they will have friends you have never met. Dates you know nothing about. Apartments or dorm rooms you may never get a chance to visit. Griefs and problems of their own they will never share, even with you. You who poured your soul out for their benefit. The umbilical cord is finally, irrevocably cut. And the pain will bring you to your knees.
I had to physically restrain myself when one of my children had a bad experience at their work place...I wanted to march right down there, hands on hips, and say to this manager "How DARE you treat my child like this!! What kind of an idiot manager would treat ANYONE this way? I'm telling on you to your supervisor, and you'd better give my child a raise for all the trouble you've caused!"
OK, mamma bear, I had to remind myself...this "child" is now 18 years old, and beyond your legal defensive screaming. But...but...I don't want any of my children to suffer! Please, let me straighten the path! Let me remove all the rocks, let me make sure the sun shines every day and no bad guys lurk in the shadows! Let me believe they will live forever...
Because that's what it really is. We look down that long, winding path and have that sinking realization that there is nothing we can really do to stop the lurking bad guys. We will be dead and gone, and our children will be walking that path without us to be their personal body guards. In fact, to be truthful, we may continue to walk our own lonely paths while their journey comes to an end. That is probably the hardest and most painful thought of all.
This is the core. This is a secret grief all parents carry. This can be tapped at any random moment, and will bring tears during church sermons, movies, beautiful sunsets, and even coffee commercials. The deep, abiding belief that "behold, children are a gift from the LORD (Psalm 127:3)" and they really are not our property. God can call them back to Himself at any time.
Should this be grievous? Should we complain? Or should we be like Job, who after losing all his children in one disastrous moment, says "The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord"?
I don't know about you, but seeing my mother lose a child and witnessing friends lose children, it seems like God is asking a lot for a "Job" response. And yet--He does. He asks us to back away...to give up...to trust Him with the future and with things most precious to us. He asks us to hold our children in a light grasp, ready to offer them up in a few fleeting years, or in a moment of time. He asks us to say "this is another human being...independent...made in His image for His purposes, not for mine."
Am I ready for that? Probably not. I'm in practice. I have quit giving (well, not so much!) unsolicited advice. I don't call and leave voice messages on their phones (I'm a good girl and always text). I try not to say "so...met anyone special yet?" too often. I don't insist they clean their bedrooms in their apartment 600 miles away. I still tell them I love them. Regularly. So we shall see. God is working on my heart, one heartbreaking day at a time.
I shall close with my favorite parenting quotation of all time:
“Making the decision to have a child - it is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body. ” (Elizabeth Stone)
May God be with and bless each of us as we both struggle with and share our griefs with each other.
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