It’s 11 o’clock at night, and I’m sitting on the tiny little red stool in his room, gazing up at the little white paper stars he cut out to hang over his bed. The stars, all hanging low from fishing wire, are dancing in the wind of the ceiling fan. He is sleeping peacefully while I am praying for peace. And I pray for him, and for his teacher, and his classmates. I can still remember the first time I dropped him off at the church nursery. I have the sticker from that day in his baby book. He was fine, I was not. And it was just the beginning of a lifetime of saying goodbye, of giving him over to someone to watch him during the time we left him and the time we got back … someone we had to trust to take care of him in the “in between.” It doesn’t really matter our choices as a parent: if we decide to not work and stay at home, if we decide to homeschool … at some point we have to squeeze our child’s hand tight, take a deep breath, and then let go. Our God knows fully about letting a Son go. Tucker's very first pillow was in the shape of a star. Someone gave it to him as a baby. It was striped and khaki. And he loved it and took it everywhere we went until one day it got left behind. So I ineptly tried to sew him another one, and this time it was his favorite color — red. And he loved it even in its lopsidedness. It lay on the bed next to him last night as he slept. He was all stretched out looking big; his red star beside him looking small. Yesterday, we went up to his school all abandoned and quiet, the calm before the chaos. And I took a piece of chalk in my pocket. And we showed him where we would drop him off and where we would pick him up, and we took his picture by the door before there were a million people swarming around in 1st day chaos. And then I drew stars with chalk: a few on the playground, a few on the sidewalk, one near the stairs. All small and blue, because that’s his favorite color now. And as we walked back to the car, I told him if he felt nervous, uncertain, lonely, scared, or sad tomorrow to look for the stars. I told him that we hoped they would remind him that his God loves him, and he can talk to Him anytime. I told him that we hoped they would remind him his mommy and daddy love him, and we are praying for him in the “in between.” That’s so much of what parenthood is. It’s loving and teaching and training and rehearsing the truths we know into their ears and then praying that they are prepared and will stand firm in the teachings we have passed to them (2 Thessalonians 2:15). Praying they will look to the “stars” (the reminders) when they forget. And praying they will let the Father guide them through the “in between” and everything else. Parenthood is breathing deep and saying “I submit to Your will for my kids and I accept Your best plan for them” whatever that may be. And in the letting go, we worship our Creator and enable them to worship Him more freely too. And this past year and this summer and this morning, I found how hard it is not to buckle under the weight of the fear of the unknown. And when I am buckled under fear, I have a choice to stand back up and claim them as ours or to stay down low on my knees and surrender them to the one who created them. And I had to remind myself that parenthood isn’t just about God using us to shape our children, but it’s also about God using parenthood to shape us. This morning, all four of us walked to school in the morning sun, and Ben prayed over him again as we walked. We reached the door of his class, and we took him in all hugs and kisses and chaos. He found his seat all confidence and smiles, and I snapped a picture determined not to cry. And just before I turned, he reached up his arms one more time, and I gratefully squeezed him tight, breathed deeply, and let him go. Last night after I left his room, I went out our front door and stood barefoot looking toward the Heavens at stars all white and little in the sky. Then I drew what I was standing under. One on the sidewalk and one on the stair. All large and blue.
And they were for me. So they would remind me that his Father loves him more than I do and He is holding him in the “in between.”
6 Comments
This week, I sat on cold tile floor painting tiny little toes sparkly purple. I fashioned pirate attire and buttoned up princess dresses and watched Mater and Lightning McQueen zoom around the playroom. I cuddled up next to our oldest as he read to me about dinosaurs, and we took off with our new friends Jack and Annie as we escaped to a mysterious tree house. I rolled up my jeans and dug in dirt and colored sidewalks with a princess donning rain boots. I visited the library and watched fresh excitement fill our boy as he signed up for his first summer reading program. I danced with bare feet hitting the floor in the living room with our 3-year-old in my arms and laughter spilling out of our mouths. I did dishes in the kitchen while our 5-year-old sat on a stool nearby and asked me questions about what it means to “not count the costs,” and I marveled at how our God teaches me through our kids.
This week, I stayed at home with our kids as you worked hard and made sacrifices so that I could. And even when you were gone, I witnessed your love for me through the way you've taught them. You can tell a lot about the way a man feels about his wife by the way he leads his kids to treat her. I am reminded of your love when our boy offers to help, when he shows respect. When he protects his sister, when he tells her she’s beautiful. I am reminded of your love when our girl says “please” and “thank you” and when she pulls my face close, pats my cheeks, and whispers she loves me. This week, I watched you sit on a porch and share life with a neighbor. I spooned strawberry jam onto hot biscuits you baked for us in the morning. I listened to you share how you were going to admit a wrong and ask for grace from a friend. I watched you pitch baseballs to our sweaty boy and a neighbor kid and chase them around the bases in our backyard with the well-warn diamond path. We cooked a college student’s favorite dinner, and she joined in on the family Bible time and marched from Bethlehem to Moab with us, and I saw Christ fill our living room when ministry and ordinary life meet the way they should. I watched you play with our daughter and listened as laughter filled a room. I ran in the morning breeze and chatted with a sister friend and felt the breath of 30 minutes away that renewed me while you wrestled kids and wished you were still sleeping. I listened to your plans for this summer’s ministry and for next semester’s ministry. I read love notes you left me on bathroom mirrors. This week, I grew by watching you and listening to you. I grew because you served me and taught me how to serve. I saw Jesus through you. I felt loved because of you. This week, I thought about 10 years of marriage—of joy and of pain, of routine and of change, of laughter and of tears. I thought of Birmingham’s green hills, Georgia’s trees all hanging low, and of Texas sunsets in spaces wide; I thought of family lost and grief shared and family gained and joy multiplied. I thought of our first apartment, our first rented house, our first home purchased (and the three other places in between). I thought of seminary graduation and celebrating a job and packing up our things and driving half way across the country. I thought of holding our first-born in our arms, of exhausting nights, and of the blessing of that first smile. I thought of your arm tight around me as we kissed our second-born good-bye and watched them wheel her back for heart surgery just six days new to the world. I thought of sitting at our dinning room table with damp faces as we saw our third child’s huge dark eyes for the first time. I thought of hurts unspeakable and joys unimaginable, and I thought of how I shared all of that with you: The man of steadiness and strength and wisdom and conviction that I respect and love. The man who loves me wholly and sacrificially the way our Father designed, like Christ loved the Church. This week, I laughed with you, tickled kids with you, talked with you, held hands with you, washed dishes beside you, discussed books with you, listened to music with you, dreamed with you, read the Word with you, worked beside you, and kneeled to pray with you. And next week, we’ll do it all over again. And I couldn’t be happier about it. Happy Anniversary, my love. Sorting through a box in my closet, I found it.
A white piece of paper folded in half and printed in blue ink: a letter from the summer of 2002. I had been hastily looking for something but knowing instantly what was in my hand, I sat on the edge of my bed to read it. “How is it going out in Glorietta? I hope everything is going great…Katie and I are excited that y’all want us to be in the wedding. I can’t wait… We hope to hear from you soon. Well I got to go. I will talk to you later. Bye” Signed: “Soon to be brother-in-law, Jacob Edfeldt”. And sitting there in my bedroom all by myself, I laughed out loud. Then carefully folded it back up and tucked it safely into my box of treasured cards. Three years ago, Jacob came to visit. It was spring break of his junior year in college, and he had a few days free. He came to see Ben and me, but mainly he came to spoil Tucker rotten. We had a friend who had recently been deployed and had left his Wii with us. This was not the best thing for Ben and me as we were quickly reminded why we don’t have gaming systems of our own--Mario Cart is addictive and we are-- just a little bit-- competitive with each other. One evening, Ben had a meeting at the BSM, and I wondered what Jacob and I would do in his absence. We knew each other, of course, but neither of us had ever quite figured out what to talk about for very long in each other’s presence. I had a bad headache and after putting Tucker to bed, I planned to chat with Jacob for a little bit and then go to bed early. But then I returned to the living room. And Jacob was playing Mario Cart. For a few minutes I sat and watched until I succumbed to the music and Princess Peach’s annoying “yippee”. We road around on raceways, a railroad, and a ridiculous rainbow until I called it quits and went to find Excedrin. I came back in to say good night when I heard the Nintendo music from my childhood. Jacob had found a game for the “older” Mario Brothers versions that hooked up to the Wii and there was Luigi hitting his head on bricks, jumping on flowers that made him grow, and fighting dragons for his princess. When Ben arrived home after 11, Jacob and I were sitting side by side in the living room clutching controllers and intently talking strategy as we tried to remember the secret tunnels and tricks. We had bonded over Mario. The next morning was Jacob’s 21st birthday. We hung up the birthday banner and put streamers over his door. I made pancakes, and we gave him his birthday present and then drove him to the airport. Ben, Tucker, and I hugged him good-bye. And that was the last time. We have a house full of things that remind us of Jacob: Christmas ornaments, photos, a blanket, T-shirts, a pillow in Libby’s crib that was Jacob’s as a baby, a set of Mickey Mouse ears with Tucker’s name on them that we found in Jacob’s things after he died. And every now and then we find something we have forgotten about-- like a white piece of paper typed up by a 14-year-old boy and sent to me for encouragement while I worked at a camp. And he is still making us smile. *Telling Tuck and Libby all about their Uncle Jacob today on his 24th birthday, and I have to admit I’m humming a little bit of the Mario Brother’s tune. |
AuthorWe are a family of five (Ben, Beth, Tucker, Libby, and Zane). We started this blog during our 7 year journey to bring home a child through adoption. This is our story of how God is faithful in the good, the bad, and all the in between. Archives
June 2020
Categories
All
|