A Mother's Heart

There is nothing quite like being a parent. Thirteen years ago Mike and I were hoping to become parents for the first time. I can honestly say we had no idea what we were getting into. Being a parent is the most amazing, painful, joyful, heartbreaking adventure ever. In September of 1999, we found out we were expecting. I’ll never forget the sense of anticipation and excitement I felt. I was going to be a mom!

One of the most devastating moments of my life was the loss of that baby. I barely had time to celebrate being pregnant before I wasn’t anymore. It was a profound sadness. A sense of failure. A loss that few people could understand. I remember thinking, “Nothing this horrible has ever happened to me. Never. Not in my entire life.” We grieved. We turned to God for comfort and grace. We learned how to trade our sorrows for the joy of knowing Christ.

A couple of months later, I was pregnant again. This time, the anticipation was dampened by anxiety. A thousand “what ifs” beat a rhythm in my head. By grace, I learned to trust God over those nine months. After losing the first baby, I knew that each day I carried this one was a gift. I was thankful for each day God let me shelter and grow the tiny life inside of me. Every day I gave my baby back to God. That didn’t stop when Abby was born. My children belong to God. He has given them to me for a while, but they are never truly mine. They belong to Him. The question is how will I steward the gift?

One of the hardest things about trusting God is when He tells you to let go. Just a few weeks ago, we found out Jumah was planning on moving in with her boyfriend. To say this was out of the blue would be a gross understatement. Jumah has never been one to talk much about her plans for the future. Trying to talk to her about her goals, her boyfriends, or her emotions is an exercise in frustration. She rarely shows any emotion other than compassion. She has always expressed the desire to find and live God’s plan for her life. We have done our best to teach her what that means and how to go about it. So to choose a lifestyle that is so clearly against God’s plan – well, shock doesn’t begin to describe how we felt about it all.

The one positive thing I can say about the past three weeks is that nothing teaches you about the heart of God the way your children do. How many times has God shown me the right way, the best way, and I’ve chosen MY way instead? How many times has he shown me how much he loves me even when I worship so many other things before I worship him? How much love and grace and forgiveness does he pour out on me when I repent and turn back to him? Has he ever shut me out? Has he ever left me? No. How can I offer my daughter anything less? I can’t. But the only way I have the strength to do any of it is by the grace of God, His Spirit living in me.

Today, when Jumah moved out, I felt like I did that day thirteen years ago when I lost my first child. There is so much I don’t understand, so many prayers God hasn’t answered the way I had hoped. So much sadness, so much grief. I grieve for my loss, but I grieve for hers as well. There are spiritual consequences to this decision that she refuses to even think about. But what I have to remember is that Jumah doesn’t belong to me. She never has. She belongs to God. His Spirit lives in her, too. The same Spirit that works in me, giving me strength to love and forgive, to hope and persevere. So I will continue to be thankful for every moment I get to be a mother to the children God has blessed me with. Even this one.

Mortality

Last night I couldn’t sleep. I was lying in bed, not sleeping, thinking about death. Yes, death. Not in the morbid way you are thinking. Well, I guess death is always morbid. But I wasn’t depressed. The first brush with death I remember was when my grandfather died. 30 years ago this coming Saturday. I was eight years old. I was familiar with the concept. My dad was a pastor, so sickness, death, and funerals were just part of the gig, I suppose. But aside from the occasional pondering of my own eternity, and the peripheral details that I might have noted when a church member passed away, death itself was a stranger to me.

Granddaddy Glenn was my mother’s father. I don’t remember many things about him, but I do remember some. I remember going for walks around their Marietta neighborhood. I remember the thickness and heat of the summer evening air. I remember the grids on the sidewalks. I remember him holding my hand as I balanced along the various retaining walls that lined the way. I remember his canes, the ones he walked with, and the ones he was making hanging in lines in his workshop under the house. The jars he put over branches to force them to grow into curves. Handle shaped curves. I remember the slow, Southern lilt to his voice. The smell of their house on Kennesaw Ave. The hornet nests lined up on top of the upright grand piano my mother learned to play on. I remember the hydrangeas, how they were different colors depending on what he fed and watered them with. As a child, I thought that was magic. I remember fireflies blinking in the evening sky. Catching them and marveling at the light within.

I have other memories, some bolstered by photographs, most with the subtle changes that come after 30 years of remembering. I remember him going to the hospital. It was a planned procedure. We visited him afterward, I think. He told us he would be back home soon. But then everything was not all right. Grandmama and mom were worried. We spent what seemed like forever in a small waiting room, then my sister and I were whisked off to play with strange new friends in an unfamiliar house. And when we returned to the house on Kennesaw Ave, it was full of family I didn’t remember, and my Granddaddy was gone.

At eight years old, death seems like a bad dream. I thought that one of us would wake up any minute. I was hoping it would be him. I remember the viewing. It was the first time I remember seeing someone’s body after the soul had gone from it. He looked like he was sleeping. I wondered what would happen if he just woke up. I remember the funeral, and the hot summer sun at the graveside. Beads of sweat rolling down my cousin’s cheeks.

 I’m pretty sure I remember all kinds of fun with my cousins afterward during that visit, but it could have been a different one. Digging in the red Georgia clay, making up all kinds of crazy games, hours in the backyard finding new ways to drive away the pressing Georgia heat with the water hose. The bone rattling excitement mixed with a drop of terror as the trains rumbled past on the tracks that were just a few feet away behind the house. Afternoon thunderstorms. My cousin Sue reading stories to us from “The Blue Fairy Book” we found in Aunt Emmy’s library. I still have that book, on the shelf in the green room. We grew up miles and miles from my nearest relatives, so most of the memories I have of them are from those brief visits over the years when I was growing up. Not that I have ever lacked in family. They just aren’t usually actually related to me.

In the months after we returned home, it settled in that death was final. When someone dies, there is no seeing him again in this lifetime. I finally understood why death made people sad, why people don’t want to talk about it, why we pretend it doesn’t exist. I experienced grief, probably for the first time over something more serious than moving to a new city or losing a treasured belonging. But, as they say, life goes on. Especially when you are eight years old.

Last night, when I was thinking about death, I was thinking about how familiar it has become. Now it is my job to watch the process. Realization. Denial. Pain. Acceptance. Grief. Comfort. Prayers while holding the hand of a suffering soul. Boxed up panic while standing back, watching the code team efficiently doing their part to hold back the curtain. Gentle hands doing what they can to provide comfort. And then, the final moments and the unsolved mystery of how the spirit is released when a heart stops beating. Sometimes it is a relief. Sometimes it feels like part of my spirit flies away with them. Occasionally there is almost no feeling at all, just the practical things that must be done. But however it comes, it is no longer a stranger to me. It just is what it is. Part of life. A part that should be respected, not ignored or avoided. A beginning of its own. With that thought, I finally fell asleep.