Claimed

When I was 5, my mother tried to kill herself. She tucked me into her bed, close beside her in the warmth of a Vegas night. I laid with her while the fan turned above me, while the breeze blew hot and scented with sand over me.

And I fell asleep. Against her. To her heartbeat and to her scent.

Sometime after I fell asleep she got up, went into the bathroom, and took every pill in the house. She collapsed there on the cold tile.

I know she didn't intend for me to wake up and see her. But I did.

She was convulsing. Her eyes were rolled back. She was utterly terrifying.

But she was still my mama. So I sat and held her hand and cried.

I closed my eyes with the words of the Hail Mary on my lips. And I felt rising up in me in that one moment- a claiming. A claiming of myself, deeper than anything I could verbalize. Deeper than oceans and sand and scent and hurt. Deeper than the moment I was living in- the horror I was witnessing.

I felt the brush of wings against my face. I felt enveloped. I felt peace.

I ran to the phone and called my father. Soon red and blue painted the space I sat in, painted my mothers now still face with color and light.

I was picked up, carried. But I looked back to see her there, so small and still on the tile. I saw the paramedics slap her, shake her. And I wished for her to live.

She did live. By a miracle, she did. I'd like to say that the rest of her life was testament to how she was saved by mercy, but it wasn't.

It wasn't she who was saved that night. It was me.

It was in those moments, a that small age, that the longing for Christ overwhelmed me. When the reaching beyond myself into a greater something was all I could hope for. When help was not to be found, when the silence was too great and the horror to deep I called out.

How did I know? How did I believe that I could be rescued?

I still don't have the answers.

But I was.

And when I have trouble believing I go back there. When I struggle, I dream of that night. The heat. The smell of bile and the sound of her body hitting the floor.

I go back to the horror. Because in the moment I was lifted beyond myself. I was claimed by God, and held above what was happening to me into what I was. A creature of God. Loved by him. Graced with mercy.

Lily is 5. I can't think about her in these terms, because I would do anything to prevent her pain or anguish. But I do wish for her to feel, at some point in her life, this tidal wave of grace. This uplifting of soul into something bigger than herself, and wider that her world has ever been. I wish for her to know the wonder of a God who rescues from the fire, and who delivers her safe from any harm.

I wish for her to be claimed as His. To know His great hand as she knows her own. To follow the planes of her existence and her spirit as He calls her to do.

I wouldn't trade my circumstance. I wouldn't give it away, or wish it away. I wouldn't want to not remember that night because without the horror I would not know the grace.

My mother and her sickness led me to Him. She gave me a great gift- the ability to reach beyond myself for help and for strength.

So until always, I will remember the sand scented air, the heat, and falling asleep to her heart. And I will remember the terror and the horror...and the love and gentleness I was shown.

Dear God

Dear God,

Promise me. Promise me when she leaves this house,she will find somebody wherever she goes that sees how special she is.

Promise me she will have friends. That she will be happy. That she will smile.

Promise me she won't need me. That she wont cry for me. That she wont be injured.

Promise me she will be as protected away from me as she is with me.

Promise me the world will see her the way I do. That they will see her beauty and her spirit.

Promise me she will not be harmed.

Promise me, promise me.

I know. I know, God. You can't.

But my heart is so tender. There is a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes. There is her hand in mine- and it is so small. There is her head on my shoulder and her heart beating next to mine.

I've held her, Lord. I've held her every single day since she was born. I've kissed each booboo. I've wiped her tears. I've loved her through every sunrise to every sunset.

I have given her all of me. And it seems like it is ending...in some small way.

I won' be her everything anymore. And I won't be her best friend. And I wont be her only teacher.

I will be mommy. I will not be everything anymore.

Her world will grow larger with each day, with each new friend, with each lesson she is taught. And my place in it will shrink, just a little.

And this hurts, Lord.

It just...hurts.

But her is the thing I carry with me. The thing I know to be most true.

You love her infinitely more than ever could.

You treasure her too.

You see her for the precious creation she is.

You look at her with the eyes of a father and a Savior.

And you can go where I cannot.

So Lord, I cannot ask you to promise me she will never be hurt or never need me.

But I can ask that every step she takes, you take with her. That every experience she has you use for her good. That your hand is over her and protects her.

That your love for her goes where I cannot. This is all I ask.

She will cry. She will miss me. And she will long for her home and her family. Hold her tender heart.

She will be uncertain and unsure. Help her to be confident.

She will look out the window of her classroom, just as I look out the window of her room. And her eyes will fill. And she will feel lonely. Help her to be strong.

I trust you, Lord. I trust you with her heart the way I have trusted you with mine.

Walk with her Lord...beyond the schoolroom doors until I can hold her again.

A thousand small heartbreaks.

Being a mother is what I was born to do. I know this in my heart. It's a deeply peaceful feeling- knowing your feet are on the path God crafted for you.

Peaceful. And difficult.

I stay home, something I give thanks for every single day. Even when it's hard. And even when I want to run away, I am thankful that I have seen my children's first steps. I have taught them their first words. I have kissed all of their booboos.

I don't know how else to parent, but by being THERE for it all. It is overwhelming to me to give up control over their everyday lives. To not make the choices for them. To not see to their physical and emotional needs at all times.

Some might call me a control freak. And they would be right. But I am also flying blind here with parenting, and to make sure I get it as right as I can, I have to see it all. I have to make all of the decisions. Does that make sense?

Lily is 5. She starts kindergarten in less than 2 weeks.

And my heart is broken. I cannot think of it without a lump in my throat.

She is ready. Of this I have no doubt. She is brilliant and kind and makes friends with ease. Her heart is big. Her mind is sharp enough to grasp new concepts. She is ready.

But I am not.

At all.

Other than when I had Sam, I have never been apart from Lily for more than 5 hours. I need her like I need air and water. She is my best friend, my buddy, my sweet angel, and my great joy.

She is my world.

And now I have to entrust her to others, who by a random lottery, get the privilege of teaching her. Will they see how wonderful she is? Will they look at her face and her eyes and know how lucky they are to spend time with her? Will they recognize what a living, breathing miracle she is?How treasured? How much she has been cherished and prayed for?

I don't know. And what if they don't?

What if someone hurts her? What if her sweet sensitive feelings get hurt? What is she NEEDS me, or cries for me?

For those hours of the day, she is no longer fully mine.

I have let her go in small ways a million times. Play dates, preschool, sitters. I have kissed her and prayed she would be okay- that her own compass would guide her when I could not. It has.

But I am her mama. And I have held her, carried her, prayed over her and kissed her a million times. And I don't want that to end, even in this small way.

And it feels like it is- ending.

This is what nobody can ever ever prepare you for in motherhood. You can have all of the physical gear. You can be mentally ready. But every moment after the birth, you begin to let go.

When you lay them in their crib and walk away.

When you let go of their hands as they sit up the first time.

When you watch as they tumble while learning to walk.

When you teach them to ride a bike.

When you watch them jump off the side of the pool.

And when you watch as they run off in their shiny new shoes, with their pretty new backpack, into school and the rest of their life.

Every new begninning for a child is an ending for the mother.
A thousand small heartbreaks. A million tiny fissures in the planes of your heart. Hundreds of letting go's, millions of bittersweet smiles.
All of it in one sweet face. In two beautiful eyes. In an amazing, gorgeous, remarkable soul.

Words

I really don't want to write this.

And I have been trying to avoid it all day.

And still, I am here at 9:30 pm. Because I am supposed to write this.

God can be so pushy. And I can be so stubborn.

I don't want to admit to this. I don't want anyone to think badly of me.

But I also made God a promise. That I would be transparent in ALL THINGS. Good and bad. Ugly and beautiful. They all have a place here.

I want you to know that I love my son. His face lights me up. His smile melts me. I HURT with loving him. Just looking at him causes a rush of nearlypainful joy.

But.

I have spoken words over him since he was 5 months old. Words about his lack of fear, his common sense, and his intelligence.

All done in a joking, loving manner. But still...the words were there.

When he throws himself off the stairs.

When he goes headfirst off his chair.

When he shows a remarkable lack of self preservation, or impulse control.

In fact, one of my favorite phrases for him is "If you're gonna be dumb, you gotta be tough."

I have said that to him since he was 9 months old, when this daredevil attitude really took flight.

And if I could take it ALL back, I would.

Because words have power. Words cast a net and reap what you have sown.

And I have spoken less words of praise and love over my son than I have words of fear and impatience.

I know you are judging me. And I understand that. I make no excuses. My shame over this is real, and it is profound.

I have said, in his hearing, that I didn't know if he had any common sense. That I didn't know if he was smart. And that I didn't know how we would ever make it to 3 years old without a trip to the ER.

And yes, my son is impulsive and fearless. And he terrifies me with his ability to dive headlong into anything he sees or wants.

But I have wronged him with my words.

I have spoken something over him that has come to fruition.

Dumb:
1.
lacking intelligence or good judgment; dull-witted.
2.
lacking the power of speech
3.
temporarily unable to speak: dumb with astonishment.
4.
refraining from any or much speech; silent.
5.
made, done, etc., without speech.


I know I have said these things with laughter, with astonishment, and with love...but I have still said them.

And it hurts to know I have said these things to my boy, over my boy, and around my boy.

Forgiving myself is going to be a truly magnificent task.

But for now, the lesson I have taken is this: I have to, as a mother, speak over my child what I believe to be true, and only what I believe to be true. Words out of anger and frustration are destructive.

My words are as powerful to him as God's are to me. Until God speaks to Sammy in a way he can understand, I put the face to Jesus. I am His words and His hands.

And I have NOT been faithful in this. I have not done right. I have made a mess of things.

But that's the beauty of a Savior. I am corrected, convicted of my wrongs, and forgiven.

Forgiven.

And I can go forward and speak over my son only what I know to be true- that he is a creation of God, that he is smart and kind and good, and that he is perfect as he is.

2 Samuel 23:2“The Spirit of the LORD spoke through me; his word was on my tongue."

Psalm 37:30The mouths of the righteous utter wisdom, and their tongues speak what is just.

1 Peter 4:11If anyone speaks, they should do so as one who speaks the very words of God. If anyone serves, they should do so with the strength God provides, so that in all things God may be praised through Jesus Christ. To him be the glory and the power for ever and ever. Amen.

Dear Sam

Dear Sam,

I want you to know that how you are labeled or diagnosed means nothing to me. You are NOT APRAXIC. You HAVE apraxia. There's a difference. I won't allow myself to shrink you down into just one word, one set of symptoms, or one lack of something essential.

You don't talk. Not in sentences. You speak in one word bursts.

But you are a magnificent communicator. With one look, one sign, or one gesture, I know what you want. You have created your own elaborate language with me, your mama, and it makes me feel so special. I am as close to you as any human being can be, because without even knowing it, I have learned your language. One that needs no words.

I struggle with this, Sam. You were made this way. And I believe you are perfect. Is it up to me to try to change you? To manipulate the way you speak to the world? To force you, in essence, to fit yourself into the mold of everyone else who can talk?

Or do I let you be who you are, and accept the world you can give me? This world of yours with it's sounds and gestures and nods and smiles. This IS your language. This IS your speech. Do I immerse myself in your world, because it is yours and it is easier for me to find my way in yours...or do I pull you over to mine?

I just don't know.

I want to do what is best for YOU. I want you to live in this world with ease and comfort. And, truly, the only way you can do that is by having words. I don't want you to be lonely. I don't want to look at you, and see you watching children playing, and singing...and feel that you are lacking.

Because you aren't, my sweet baby boy. You aren't lacking anything. Your brain just can't tell your mouth how to move very well. And I am going to do everything possible to make sure you never feel different. Special and set apart, yes. Different- no.

I can't say that I know what to do, or how to fix this, or how to make you better. I can't say that I am not heartbroken for our family, because we all feel your silence. Deeply.

But you remain a sweet and kind boy. With mischief in his heart and a killer smile. You dance. You run. You play and you laugh.

And you love with your whole heart, grabbing our faces and kissing us when we least expect it. You walk up to strangers and shake their hands, because you can't say "Hi.". You make people smile with your grin.

You bring about in me the intense need to protect, to teach, and to nurture. You make me work, hard, at being a good and patient mom.

I understand you so much better and so much more deeply for your lack of words, sweet boy. You have taught me that love is more than words. That care is more than physical. And that in me lies a mother who will stand between her child and the world-forever if need be.

I will never be moved from this place for you. I will be your mother, your teacher, your therapist, your buddy, and your words if need be. You will never be lonely in your silence while I live and walk.

You are loved even MORE because of this. Treasured even MORE because of this. And cherished to the end of my days because I get to be your mother.

I love you, more than all the Thomas trains and cars in the world.
Mama

Silent

Until this morning, I was in a fog of denial.

My boy is fine. He is simply quiet. He doesn't have anything to say. He doesn't want to talk. He is just stubborn.

No. No to all of it.

My son, my quiet little guy, is apraxic.

And this, this, is why he is aggressive at times. Why he throws himself to the floor. Why he bangs his head. And why only I can understand his wants/needs.

His language skills are at a 12-15 month level. He comprehends all, but cannot communicate beyond gestures and a few words.

And yes, we are getting him help. And yes, I have faith.

But this is my BABY.

And some kids recover. And some kids don't. Some kids never become great communicators.

And what if?

What if he cannot be understood? What if he is made fun of?

Why can't I take this from him?

Its neurological. And there is no definitive reason why it happens.

Was it the birth? Was it the vaccinations? Was it a fall?

Did I do this to my boy?

Did I do this???

I am utterly lost.

I drove him away from that appointment today, and watched him in the mirror. He looked out the window, pointing to trucks and cars. His mouth opened, emitting sounds I knew and understood. And I cried.

What if I am the only one who ever understands him?

And have I handicapped him? In trying to honor his quiet spirit and not "force" him to talk, did I hobble him? By letting him be, letting him play alone and in his own world, did I make this worse?

The speech pathologist words echoed in my head- "Sometimes people think they just have a quiet baby. And sometimes it is more than that."

I've sat with him in silence since he was a newborn. As somebody who enjoys silence myself, I thought I recognized in him a kindred spirit.

He took everything in. He watched.

"Still waters run deep." I told myself.

I was wrong.

Today as I drove and as I cried, God spoke.

"I created him."

And as I protested "Yes, but God..."

"I CREATED HIM."

And it sunk in. God has made Sam just as He intended. Nothing about him is flawed. No part of him is a mistake.

My soul knows this.

But for today, I will allow my mother's heart to cry for my sweet silent boy.

And pray for the floodgates to open, for the words to come...if that is God's will.

And if it is not, and if it is His will that silence reign over my son...

I will stand between Sam and the world. I will relay his gestures and words. I will interpret his needs.

And I will love him just as God made him.

Am I mom enough?

Boy has this subject made the rounds this week, all inspired by the Time magazine cover from my last post.

And it has made me think. Alot.

So, am I mom enough?

No.

I have made no secret of the fact that as a mother, I have no clue what I am doing. I am going on purely gut instinct.

And Lord help me, I mess up. Alot. Everyday I feel the overwhelming guilt and drawing down of myself for something I have done or not done. Something I have said in the heat of anger or frustration. Something I have let go instead of addressing...because I am just...tired.

I am not a perfect mother. Nor am I a particularly good mother. I am impatient. I am unkind at times. And I am hard pressed to spend quality time with my kids when there is so MUCH ELSE to do.

I am not a good mother. Not on my own.

But oh those moments. Those beautiful fleeting and all consuming moments...when I realize I am exactly where I am supposed to be in this life an in this world. When I am content, happy, and joyful.

And those moments ALWAYS involve my children. Always.

I look at them. I study their faces and their hands as they play. I stroke their cheeks and kiss their sweet skin. And I am home. Home to myself, and perfectly at peace.

That sacred space in my soul, one that can, at times, be disturbed by the winds of this world, sits silent and peaceful. The world pauses. The tide stops.

And I am in the moment, with my children. And with my great and loving God.

See, by myself, I am nothing. I am a broken and ruined city, sitting darkened and deserted.

But with Him, I am restored. I am alight with the love He gives me. I am the city on the hill, shining the way for my children

I am alight with the love it is my responsibility to teach these two sweet human beings He has given into my care.

No. By myself, as I am I am not mom enough.

But God be praised I have a savior. One who loves me enough to raise me from the darkness. One who has enough faith in me to give me my babies. One who sees me as a daughter, beloved and cherished.

Am I mom enough?

No.

But my God is certainly God enough. And through him I can be the mom my children need and deserve.