All of my thoughts are scattered. All of my physical attempts at progressing forward feel as if I’m moving through quicksand. It is here that I’ve never felt more vulnerable or more broken. I’ve erased more words than I’ve written, just in these first four sentences. I watch the cursor blink as I try to give a voice to the words that I cannot seem to bring to my lips, onto this screen. The blank page before me feels much like the blank page in my mind. What’s next?
Just the idea of that uncertainty makes my eyes well up with tears to the point that I can no longer see the keyboard. My hands are trembling as I type through the tears…but they aren’t for me. They are for my children. As a mother, the thought of sending my children out into this corrupt world deeply burdens my soul. It is something every mother must face, but it always comes sooner than expected.
As a young mother, my days were filled with meeting their needs…nursing them, caring for them, kissing their boo-boos, and shielding them from the big bad world. I took my role as their mama seriously. As they grew, we celebrated milestones and turned mistakes into teachable life lessons, but mostly I tried to nurture their relationships with God. As different as their personalities, were their responses to my care and has been their response to my leading. One child was always so independent and ready to take on the world. One child was always so caring and methodical in their thinking and actions. One was incredibly gifted but very humble. Funny, how I look at them. Each lovingly, each a part of my heart that sprouted legs and walked into the world. No surprise that when they wept, I wept. When they rejoiced, I rejoiced.
So here I sit. Thinking of the blank pages in three books barely scribbled in. What kind of story will they write? Up to this point, like a “through the years” memory book, I have had my pen in hand, telling of how beautiful they are…how precious they are…but my hands shake at the thought of handing the book and pen over to them. As much as I’d like to say I have completely given them back to God, I must be honest and say that is not the case. I’ve always gone to God to ask how to be their mother, but releasing them completely into His care scares me. It feels like I’m handing them the book and pen, not knowing if they’d consult the author of their story before writing on the blank pages.
The Lord has been telling me, “Kittie. I keep my promises. Remember Deuteronomy 30? I don’t make promises that I don’t keep.”
“But God…”
“Kittie, I keep my promises. Remember Deuteronomy 30? I don’t make promises that I don’t keep. No one loves them more than I do, even you.”
“But God, what if…”
“Kittie, I keep my promises.”
Ohhhh, this is the hard part…giving them back while trying not to fall apart when my main identity has been their mother. Letting go is so hard because I’ve grasped onto that role much tighter than any other role in my life; even that of the King’s daughter. In an attempt to raise daughters and a son of the King, I abdicated my position and handed Him my crown for a nursing bra and yoga pants. Now, years later, when there is no need for a nursing bra, but still a need for a crown…there it sits in His hands…
He says… “Kittie, I keep my promises” and places it back upon my head. “I haven’t forgotten the plans I have for YOU.”
As hard as it is to sit here and think about fully surrendering them completely to His care, I know what He has in store for them is much greater than anything I could ever offer them. Handing the pen over to Him, I gain a new perspective…I can see that their stories aren’t written in ink, they’re written in blood.
Halcyondale Cottage 