little hands, big heart

I dropped my son off at his grandparents this morning on my way to work. As I'm driving away I look back at the front door and there is my son watching me leave - waving to me, blowing me kisses. He's not crying. He's not sad. He's just saying goodbye. And I know that when he can't see me anymore he will be perfectly happy and will just go back to playing with his beloved grandparents. But in that moment, at the door, as I wave back to him and blow kisses back to him, I realize how much I MATTER to my son. Not only does he hold my Momma heart in his hands, I hold his little boy heart in my hands. This love between my son and I is like nothing I've ever experienced before. It's both terrifying and awesome to be THAT important to another... This whole other who grew inside my tummy; who I had to let go after all those months, so he could be born and live and breath on his own. Every day since there is a letting go. But this morning... I got to hold on as we said goodbye. Such a heavy, precious weight his heart is in my hands.

Letting go and finding peace

I remember feeling a definite shift in my heart as soon as I realized I was pregnant with our first child. For years I had struggled with living in the past and wanted to let it go and move on but still felt so tied to such disappointment, loss, regret, and lack of closure that left me agitated and restless. But then I became pregnant and the past fell off my shoulders. My body was changing and preparing for this new life inside of me. My heart and my mind were preparing for this new life ahead of me. I became much more present-focused (my changing body and feeling the baby moving inside of me) and future-focused (I couldn't wait to see what my baby would look like and hold him in my arms.) Now my son is 2 years old and I haven't looked back. Not in such a way as to forget my past or to be unaffected by my past but I am open and willing for NOW to matter so much more and to take up so much more space in my heart. Perhaps becoming a mom and discovering this different kind of love I've never experienced before has freed my heart. It's freed my heart to love my husband more freely and fiercely as well. And as a result, I'm so much more full of life and content. Perhaps through time, I've also become more at peace with the past. Something I have learned - much like gratitude, healing, and forgiveness - peace can't be forced upon us. Rather - taken under our wing and protected.

Presence and Absence

It is late. Especially for a 2 year old.  Especially for his tired Mommy laying in bed with a migraine. Through the monitor I hear my son singing, jumping, banging his crib against the wall. It's been over two hours and the poor little guy is having a hard time going to sleep. It's been a busy weekend with his birthday party on Saturday and a car show with daddy and grandparents on Sunday. He's not crying. He doesn't need anything from me. In fact, going into his room would make it worse. But the thought occurs to me to pray. I know that God loves and cares for my son even more than I do. Imagine that kind of love. How much has God protected my son, my husband, myself from all that we aren't even aware of? So I pray. I pray that God will lay hands upon my son and calm him and settle his precious, restless body so he can get the sleep he so desperately needs. As I pray, my son goes quiet and still. I don't hear another peep through the monitor until morning.

I don't know what to make of that, and yet, I know my God can be that present. I also know that I've experienced God as more absent than present. After I pray for my son, I pray for myself that God will lay hands upon my head and heal my migraine. But there is no relief. Perhaps it's more important for me to be resting right now, and I know, if it weren't for this migraine, I would not be resting. I'd be up late into the night cleaning or reading or editing photos or blogging, or most likely, on Facebook. I know this is what my body needs right now and I don't always heed that unless I'm forced. I sigh and settle into a long sleepless night with a cold washcloth on my forehead. And then I feel a warm hand cradle the top of my head. It's so real, so comforting I almost cry out. And then it's gone. And isn't that just the way it is with God? As if to say, I'm not always going to take your pain away, but I'm here. Sometimes that's enough. Sometimes it's not.

Seven years ago, I prayed that God would lay his hands on my dad and heal him as he lay paralyzed, unable to speak, dying from brain tumors. I imagine my dad did feel God's hands upon his broken body. I know because my dad was at peace. Yes, there were nights he woke up hyperventilating; he cried in pain, frustration, regret and deep sadness. But in the end, he was at peace. He was ready, no, he was eager to be with his Healer.

He whispers, "I will not take this away. But I am here."