Corazon de mi Corazon

"Do you know how much you love him?" I laid there, 18yrs old, barely 24hrs out of surgery, holding this tiny human that I was now responsible for and who would soon call me "Mom." 

"Yes," I replied. 

It was then that the profound love of both my mother and of God finally came into focus as she leaned in, put her hand on my cheek and said, "That's how much your momma loves you." She knew how desperately my heart needed to hear those words. She continued on, "And my precious girl, God loves you even more than that." Those words of Kit Bautsch changed my life. 

Very few things change our lives like becoming a parent does. We learn a whole new language we seem to have forgotten - You need to poopoo in the potty. We learn how very little sleep we can actually function on. We learn new ways to teach math and reading. We have a plethora of practical applications of what patience and self control really look like. But perhaps the hardest thing we learn is what life looks like to have these tiny pieces of our hearts walking around outside our bodies. Our joy is multiplied with theirs. Our excitement can't be contained anymore than theirs can. Our anxiety finds new heights. Our heartache, new lows. 

Tonight, I got to spend time with a dear friend who has lost one of those pieces. 

I've often thought about what I would do in that situation, how I would ever be able to go on again, and if I would be able to express the same faith I've clung to my entire life. But I watched her, through grief and tears, repeat the same thing to everyone she greeted - God is so good, mijo. 

In 2006, I sat in an adult Sunday School class for a few months. At the time, the study was about the book of Job. A few things stuck out to me during that study - 

1. Job's friends SUCKED. I mean, in the end, they really weren't great friends at all. Maybe this one guy a little but still. Being a friend in moments of tragedy most often means just being present. Words complicate and placate. They come out all wrong and fall short of healing. Being present, all there - that's what people really need. 

2. Job was patient until about chapter 3. Don't believe me? Check it out. There's really nothing marvelous about "The patience of Job". 

3. We are free to question God. He welcomes it. After all, every relationship must be built on honesty and He already knows anyway. When you do though, be prepared for Him to answer. "Where were you when I told the waters to stop?" ALWAYS pulls me up short when my attitude is bigger than the words that come out of my mouth. 

But perhaps what has stuck with me the most --

4. In big ALL CAP letters, written in pencil, at the end of the book are the words, "How would our view of God change if He didn't restore Job? Would He still be good?"

Last weekend, my friend reached out to me to let me know that her younger son was sick. He was very sick. I, like so many others, began praying that God would use the drs, nurses, and the medicines to heal Albert. I often want to kick myself for not being specific enough in the words that I use. HERE. That's what I meant, make him better here. 

But tonight, I found myself standing in a funeral home with my friend. I watched as so many littles walked in with their families to say goodbye to their coach. I watched as teachers, friends and family gathered to comfort one another. I watched as his former Army Sergeant, who flew in from out of state, took a packed polishing kit and diligently polished all of the buttons, the belt buckle and the medals that hung on his dress blues. I watched a different person - a complete stranger - hug his mother with only the words of, "He met me on the street and he changed my life." But mostly, I watched his mom, my friend. 

I watched the grace with which she met every person who came to say goodbye. I watched the gratitude expressed with each gift she was given. I watched her embrace strangers and console them. I watched her walk over to Brian and me, time after time to say, "Did you see that? That was God." and explain the part of her conversation we missed. 

My friend, mi hermana, my Millie stood there in the middle of the darkest, deepest hole any parent finds themself in and still was actively looking for God. 

As parents who follow Jesus, there is no greater concern, no desire so deep, no longing so real as the one that our children love God. That's it. Everything else is temporary. But that our children's hearts reflect God's heart, that is our lifelong goal in parenting. 

Albert loved God. He loved people. It didn't matter who you were or where you came from. It didn't matter what you had or if you had nothing. "He was his happiest coaching..." Loving on even the littles. 

As I watched mi hermana embrace those who came to offer condolences, tell stories and share tears over the "corazon de mi corazon", the term she often uses for her children and grandchildren, something amazing happened. Millie was the embodiment of "corazon del corazon de Dios" - heart of the heart of God. "If even one person comes to know God because of the loss of my son, all this will be worth it..." she repeated over and over again. All I could do was nod and sob.

Honestly, I'm not really sure, if faced with the same loss, my heart would be able to say those things. But my Millie. Her view of God didn't change when He didn't restore Albert HERE. She not only believes that God is still good, she told everyone who would listen.

I can only imagine that as she falls asleep tonight, Millie will hear from her heavenly Father - Ah, mija, corazon de Mi corazon.

The Other 85

Perhaps one of my greatest joys as a middle aged mother of adult sons are all the times they come and plop themselves down on the foot of my bed to fill me in on every thought, every doubt, every fear that they have. Having been with each of them 24 hours a day since birth, this is never an event I take lightly for I know these days are fleeting. Time and some amazing young ladies will replace me one day but until that day, I relish every word shared. 

It was late last night when the most recent conversation took place with our oldest. A 25 year old responsible, independent young man, he stood and paced for 2 hours at the end of our bed though it was nearly midnight. He shared his excitement over purchasing a new to him car soon and lessons he's learned at work. He shared his hopes for his future and making a life for someone he loves. But then I watched as tears filled his eyes. "Mom, we're just never going to be a united people again."

At first glance, one might think his lament was a purely political one but that's when you have to really listen. He likes to think that his compassion and concern for his fellow human beings are things buried deep within him but they're not. They're ever close to the surface with his tale tell sign being historical experiences that have shaped his outlook. 

I listened as he recalled an event they all learned of through their years of homeschooling. 

On December 24, 1914, only 5 months after World War I began, the booming of canons and popping of shots ceased in the trenches across portions of Europe. Then, slowly, a German voice would be heard singing from across the no man zone. It was the sound of Christmas Carols in their native tongue heard from their enemies' trenches. I cannot imagine the confusion, the disbelief, the baited hope those young soliders must have felt. 

On Christmas morning, the first men would literally stick their necks out of those godforsaken hell holes to see the eyes of the opposition peering back at them through the fog. First one man, then another would venture out, unarmed to meet their adversary in gestures of good faith, restatement of humanity and chivalry. Thus, the infamous Christmas Truce began when these enemies would "live and let live", exchanging small gifts and tokens to solidify the idea that we're all in this place together and while we may have our differences, we can still recognize the humanity and heart of those we would otherwise deem our enemies. 

I watched the tears and listened to his cracking voice as he said, "Mom, it's just too late for that now."

But it's not. 

The reality is that most of us live in the other 85%. Most of us WANT to see others as human beings to be loved and have compassion poured on them, the same way we wish to be loved and shown compassion. It is not by mere coincidence that Highway 85 transverses our country from north to south directly down the middle. 

The neighbor that you built a relationship with prior to the heightened emotional state that we live in now is still the same person they were before. The old classmate who reached out to let you know they were thinking about and praying for you through that gut wrenching situation is still the person who wants to do that today. The cashier who watched your kids grow and shared that his daughter was your same age until she was tragically killed at 18 is still the same man who wants to get that little side hug each time he sees you in line. 

If we could lay down our arms for just a moment... If we could recollect the character of the people we've built relationships with because of who they are and have always been... If we could meet in the middle simply because we are all in this life together, longing to be loved and shown compassion...

As long as I have breath within me, it will never be too late. 

This morning I woke as I always do. In the midst of so much confusion and heartbreak "out there", I asked the simple question I've asked so many times before - God, who do You have for me to love better today?

When the Best Gift You Got Gets Broken

This is a repost from one of my very first blogs written over 15yrs ago. (Circa 2005)

My grandparents are tightwads! No seriously. My dad often jokes with them about buying dog for them to eat since they "never seem to have money." Don't get me wrong - They have money, not a lot, but enough. (I honestly think that's where I get my knack for saving a dime.)

Anyway... that's why I was shocked when on our 10th anniversary my grandmother gave me a gift. I rushed to open the neatly wrapped box top find a Thomas Kinkade snowglobe inside!

I. LOVE. SNOWGLOBES! They are one of the few things I actually collect. 

I was so proud of my new treasure - both the meaning behind it and the fact that my grandparents were still alive to celebrate our 10th anniversary with us. I brought it home and put it high on a shelf behind our couches. I would occasionally bring it down, wind it for the boys to listen to, then gently place it back on the shelf I thought was out of reach. It wasn't. 

As I'm standing, washing dishes one day, I see Jonathan jump on the back of the couch, reach for my treasure, then hear this horrible shattering noise. In his quest to listen to the snowglobe, MY snowglobe, he had dropped it on the corner of the coffee table and broken it. 

I was irate! I turned the corner to see water, glass and glitter flakes everywhere. I tore into him. I began yelling about how a precious gift like that could never be replaced. "How could you not understand the meaning behind the fact that it was MY gift? Now when G-ma and G-pa die, I'll have nothing to show for their lives!" I spanked him and sent him to his room. He, by his choice, stayed there for the rest of the day. 

When I look back on that day (even retyping this 15+yrs later), I am honestly embarrassed and devastated. How could I possibly treat him like that? He was only 5yrs old. Jay, out of all of our kids, is by far the most tenderhearted. 

I cleaned the glass up though and went on about my day. I remember talking to him that night. I remember apologizing for the angry words I said, but I still didn't want to let go of MY snowglobe. I searched for weeks for a repair shop, determined to have it fixed as soon as possible, needing only to save the $75 to do so. 

That was August. We found out we were having another baby only a few weeks later. 

Fall came and we played in the leaves. 

The snowglobe was quickly forgotten. By me. 

Christmas night we were at my parents house. Everything was going great. I have always entered spending time with my parents, brothers and sister (in law). But when it came time to open gifts, momma made me sit down on the couch. That's never a good thing with us. It means - I'm about to make you cry. 

I was very nervous. Then Jonathan walked in with a box. It was wrapped in the most beautiful Christmas paper I think I have ever seen. Mom was crying when she said, "He told me he had to get you something when we took them to the store..." 

I had no idea what I was about to open. Jay sat down on the couch beside me. As I began to unwrap the box, tears began streaming down my face. 

It was a snowglobe. A dolphin snowglobe. 

I heard a tiny voice beside me say, "Mom, I'm really sorry I broke your snowglobe."

I don't remember much more about Christmas. I remember that I couldn't stop crying. It all hit me again - how I had wounded his spirit to the point that he, a five year old, would remember months later. I cannot think about the events now without crying still. 

I can tell you that the snowglobe I got from my grandparents that year was never, nor will it ever be, fixed. It sits on a shelf in our livingroom to remind me of the power of my words. 

****2021 update****

Beside it sits another snowglobe though - my reminder of the power of forgiveness, the desire of my children to always know my unconditional love and to please me at all costs. More recently, though, the two snowglobes have become my reminder of the grace and mercy I've been given over my 26yrs as a mom.

A Day of Birthdays

This week has had me thinking a lot about my precious mini's 15th birthday. In a few days shy of a month, she turns the exact same age that I was when I started dating her dad - what a scary thought! But perhaps even scarier than that is the approaching sixth month reminder that that day may not have ever come. 

Years of loving and counseling teenagers had me acclimated to a few things:

Growing up sucks. There is no doubt about this one. We all feel it, whether 13-18yo, 18-25yo or well over that. Growing up means the continual progression of evaluating beliefs, questioning society, and breaking down of the physical tent we call a home here on earth. Without reference points and experience to glean understanding and perspective from, teenage years can quickly become a spoiled soup of emotions, reactions and consequences. 

Teenagers don't understand their parents and parents don't understand why their babies won't heed their counsel anymore. Those years of "don't touch the hot stove" turn into years when counsel is often in one ear and out the other in exchange for personal experience and lessons we'd love to help them avoid. But we can't. Some lessons are only learned by experience, thus heartache and heartbreak become a regular part of the journey we attempt to walk together. 

The need to experience things on their own warps perspectives and gives way to the feelings of over protectiveness all teenagers feel toward their parents. Our perceived need to protect them from all hurt and harm furthers the distance between our shmoopies and ourselves as we grapple with feelings of lack of control over this once tiny being who held onto our every word. 

But what happens when all that gets broken? What happens when a parent becomes withdrawn in a foolish attempt to shelter their child from the grief of losing them one day? What happens when words aren't spoken frequently enough in concern and the final layers of control are stripped away by a world altering pandemic?

On October 19, 2020, our family would have a crash course in learning what happens. With emotions at an all time high and disputed consequences by outside parties, my precious mini felt so out of control that leaving this place on a permanent basis was her only choice. 

As the words "You did what?!?!?" are seared into my memory,  I can see where I'm standing and quickly recall the emotions I felt that night. In her desperate attempt to just not feel those feelings any longer, ingestion of chemicals would be her out. 

The flurry of phone calls and preparation to head to the ER are a little less clear. I sat in the back of the car, holding her hand, both angry and scared at what was happening. Covid meant lockdown at our destination so I, the antithesis of her being, would be the only one allowed in with her. 

I attempted to convey to the staff the newly begun prescriptions and the black label they contained for teenagers but it fell on deaf ears. I'll never forget the ER doctor looking me straight in the face and saying, "If she was really on medication and in therapy, this wouldn't have happened." I should have known then how the rest of the evening would play out. 

After all physical tests had been run and came back within normal range, we sat for an hour with the psychiatrist. He was a bubbly, jovial man who tested her beyond the constraints I was willing to go that evening and even tackled some of the beliefs she had begun to hold. I can't tell you how many times his words of reassurance have been the words I've echoed back to her since that night - "Today (it was after midnight by this point), today you get to start all over. You've burned the whole house down and there's nothing left. Today, you begin rebuilding, one step, one brick at a time...." All of the old was now gone. We were given the chance to begin again by miracle. 

I'll spare details of the rest of that particular journey but that a disagreement with staff caused us to leave AMA. The desperateness I had heard in her voice "Momma please... mommy, no..." quickly snapped me back to the place we both needed me to be. CPS became our newest contacts as sheriff's deputies literally drove up in our driveway behind us. What we had just experienced was something I would never wish on anyone, let alone the storm looming on the horizon. But I would fight now. I would never relent again. With 100% support of our actions that evening from her amazing therapist and our beloved pediatrician of 25yrs, we triumphed over our second ever CPS case in record time. 

This grown up sized child would never lack hearing my voice or knowing my reassurance again. She would, hopefully, come to see the mom she should have always had. 

All those years of youth ministry never prepared me for that moment. I had never sat with the mother of a suicide survivor. With no frame of reference myself, the days of attempting to spare her from the grief of losing me one day quickly turned my focus to days, for the rest of my life, of building bridges, understanding and demonstrating the unconditional love she had been void of during my years of clinical depression. We now had more in common than either of us was willing to admit before - we needed each other to make it through this phase of life - the losses, the depression and the ever shifting sands. 

The months to follow would find all chemicals in our home locked away. All medications behind locked cabinets. And my mini sharing not only my bed but all of her space with me. I all but sat in classes with her. I  couldn't bear to let her out of my sight. How could I? I nearly lost one of the most precious things in all of life to me. 

Almost six months ago. I remember that I didn't sleep that night. I laid there, watching her breathe, waiting for every chest rise and fall just like I had when she was an infant. I still regularly do even though she's back in her own room now. Then I just look at her beautiful face. 

It was never lost on me, the date of those events. It was her half birthday. And now, because of God's grace and mercy we celebrate not only her 15th birthday but her half birthday of life renewed. She holds my hand and throws me half heart hands to complete at every glance. God's given me more time with my Pigs and I'll cherish every moment, even the hard ones. 

Parents, don't take one day for granted. Don't fall into the trap of "tomorrow..." Don't wall off your emotions in an ill attempt to protect your children from pain down the road. Pain is going to happen, it's the trade off for a life lived to its fullest and is only increased when experienced alone. Love the shmoopies. Love them hard. Demonstrate the unconditional love God gives so that there's never a question in their minds - they are loved. And never give up. Never. 

Happy (upcoming) birthdays my precious girl. I am thankful for everyday I get to live this life with you. 💕

Her High Heel Rubber Boots

It's that time again and I couldn't be more excited!!! Homesteading and gardening have always been my very favorite hobbies to learn more about. So when momma texted me last night and said, "Daddy wants to know when you want to plant the garden..." my excitement immediately took me to last frost date and all the planning that's involved. 

I ran through supplies on hand in my mind - seeds, potting soil for starter plants, gloves, rubber boots. Stop. 

I have two pairs of rubber boots, both well used. My black pair with dragonflies and pink ribbons remind me of the day I texted Aunt Suzie to show her what I had just ordered. A few days later, I got a text from her of these high heel pink rubber boots with pink ribbons that she had ordered from the same website. After she went Home, I asked for only a few things from my cousins, her boots included. 

If you knew Aunt Suzie or followed her social media updates, you knew she always began tough posts with - "Well, my friends, it's time to put my boots on again and venture on another hike..." Her literary imagery was the embodiment of how she lived her everyday life. When it came to cancer, to nerve damage, to the pain those things brought, she would make her way up the steep slopes of the mountain placed in front of her without complaint, without woe is me, without the anxiety a lack of knowledge about what the future would hold could bring. Did she ever need encouragement? Duh. Yes! That's where our shared infinity for glitter being like God's goodness was born from. 

But those boots. I can still see her beaming from ear to ear about high heel rubber boots. I giggle at the impracticality of heels on rubber boots but smile at the physical representation of who she was. 

This year began pretty rough for us. A covid diagnosis on Jan 3 meant two weeks of quarantine for us all. Family "Christmas" would once again be moved as nearly all of the cousins tested positive starting the week before Christmas until our diagnosis at the end. We had only seen each other at Aunt Tracy's funeral. Another aunt lost to stage 4 breast cancer. It felt like a nightmare we couldn't escape. 

So when I found it, a strawberry sized lump, while Brian was on his 10th day of quarantine, I just couldn't say anything. I froze, literally, for 36 hours. At first I tried to reason it away as someone who has a history of cysts and had been down this road before but this time, this time it was different. The size, the texture, the shape, the lack of pain. 

After those initial 36hrs, I only told momma. Even then I begged her to give me two weeks to see if it would resolve on its own but she knew the difference in all the symptoms just like I did. I, reluctantly, made an appointment for a week later. 

But still, I told no one. How could I? My best friend literally lived this nightmare not even a year ago. How could I drudge up emotions and feelings that were so freshly under the surface? Then there was my family. The greatest source of my encouragement and earthly strength. They could not know. I could not even breathe when I would think about having to tell them what might be. My husband, my kids, my brothers and sister (in law), my cousins, grandmother, aunt and uncles. No way would anyone be hurt by anything that was going on with me. Thankfully, the excitement of finally all being together at "Shrimp Christmas", all now covid free, didn't allow for any quiet time together. I was in the clear now to wait. 

Still, those boots. Sitting by my backdoor, the irony of their possession was not lost in those moments. The last time I went through this, she had been the voice on the other end of the phone. She had been the one walking me through procedures and testing to come. She was the one I called back immediately when I walked out of the Women's Center that last time to say, "Everything is good!" Now, she wasn't here. Her silence was deafening this time. Those boots that had walked up so many mountains were now laying at my backdoor. 

God, in His infinite wisdom, gave me a best friend to walk with this time. Procedures and tests re-explained. Tears shared and reminders of one day at a time were daily, sometimes hourly, occurrences. She knew I didn't want to tell my family, she truly understood why. 

After three long weeks, the nightmare would be put in our 2021 rearview mirror. Many tenuous talks with doctors later would reveal what we had all been praying for - no cancer. Everything else could be dealt with later. 

Those boots. Those high heel, wonderfully worn, half a size too small for me boots. Not only had she figuratively climbed mountains in those boots but she harvested real vegetables in those boots. Vegetables that had grown from seeds and plants she had planted. Plants she had cared for, watered, pruned, fertilized but plants God did all the growing for. 

When I found the adenoma, I didn't water the seeds of fear. I vividly remember not being afraid, maybe it was shock, but just being determined. "Gotta do whatcha gotta do..." - I'm not sure how many times I said that to myself, to Brian, to Toni. 

The most amazing thing to me in all of this though is the continuing faithfulness of God to grow His peace and His comfort, His strength and His provision in and for me. I talked the whole way through the biopsy, oblivious that the procedure had already begun. Momma laughed, she said Aunt Suzie did too. 

I was prepared to put those boots on and hike whatever mountain God put in front of me. But I didn't have to this time. Instead, I'll slip them on next week as we plant our garden. Then, we'll again watch Him produce fruits in total amazement of His unconditional, unwavering love for us. 

Pic: Pickles from the day I got to hang out with momma, Aunt Suzie and Aunt Birdie learning, chatting and laughing. ❤

Helping Them Say Goodbye

I'll never forget that day or the sound of her voice on the other end of the line. "I just can't do this anymore..." I could see the tears rolling down her face even though I was no where near her. You see, this was the job she went to school for. It was a job that she loved. A job, though she never saw herself as an overly compassionate person, God not only called her to but used her to begin the healing process of wounds which will never go away. 

My cousin was 8 months pregnant that November day. She had just sat with a family, a mother, a father, who were mourning the death of their newborn. She tendered her resignation only a short time later, not because she was overcome with grief that day but because she and her husband had always wanted her to be at home with the kids. 

My cousin is a funeral director by trade. To watch her work and scale the depths of her knowledge and wisdom is nothing short of amazing. She was the first, and still one of the only, of us grandkids who finished their schooling and obtained a degree. But watching God pull out the compassion He's poured into her during times of folks' deepest, darkest needs is a testament to His incomprehensible, intimate knowledge of exactly how he made  her and how He gifted her. 

So this morning, as I sit here in this cold parking lot, watching an overwhelmingly late 20s & early 30s group of *kids* make their way to the front doors to say goodbye to their friend, I wonder again - how did she do it?

How do you walk with people day in and day out "through the valley of the shadow of death"? How do you mourn with and grieve for people whom God places in your life for a moment in time? I quickly recognized the irony of the answer to my questions being contained within my questions. God. 

I found my way into the small chapel where folks had gathered. There was laughter; there were memories being recalled; there were tears which gave way to long, hard embraces. I watched all of these lives that had somehow been touched by the life we gathered to celebrate. 

This would be a first for me, a first for Brian. The funeral of a former student. A student who was the same age last week as so many of the adopted daughters we have gained through years of opportunities in loving youth. Young women who are a part of my everyday life. To imagine them suddenly gone is beyond breath stealing for me - it is what I begin my prayer for them each day to avoid. "God, keep (her) safe today. Be with her and remind her of your love. Give me words to say when my phone rings...." Then my mind shifted to the children God gave me the honor of giving birth to. My life without them would be diminished in purpose, in joy, in fullness. 

His "little" brother began to play his guitar. Worship has always been something our family has intentionally stressed during our Homegoing celebrations. But this time, not being married to the leader, I watched the toll that last gift took. His focus was glorifying God while remembering his brother. I later thanked him for the gift and sacrifice he made in love. 

But in that song sequence, he sang a song new to me, one I quickly texted Brian to remember. "Nothing Else" by Cody Carnes. 

I'm caught up in Your presence
I just want to sit here at Your feet
I'm caught up in this holy moment
I never wanna leave

My cousin. How many times had she found herself in the back of the room, praying for peace and comfort for families? What would she have told them?

Now, today, she would tell them that grief sucks. The hole left by his absence will not ever be filled. One day, one moment you will be fine. Then a smell, a sound, a song will send a cascade of emotions that you are unable to control or reign in. At first. 

She would tell them that it doesn't get easier. It gets different. That seeing him again one day may not be enough for this moment right here. That anger and regret and loneliness have all been a part of her own journey. 

But God. 

That same God who gave her the strength to meet with families day after day, with our mortality ever present and looming, meets her every morning as the sun comes up again. He hears her. He hears the anger in "it's just not fair". He hears the regret in "if we had only". He hears her cry in the lonely moments in a crowded room. And He doesn't shame her. He doesn't tell her she shouldn't feel that way or tell her to be more thankful for what she's had. He comes ever closer to her. He binds up that brokenness in the moment and quiets her fears. He is there with her, in her loneliness, whispering in the quiet, "I Am." 

That's what she would tell them. To cry. To wail. To scream. Then to sing. Even if it's only lips moving, sing. 

He has given me a new song to sing, a hymn of praise to our God. Many will see what he has done and be amazed. They will put their trust in the Lord. Psalm 40:3

Oh, I'm not here for blessings
Jesus, You don't owe me anything
And more than anything that You can do
I just want You

What Football Taught Me About Being a Mom

For nine years I would stand on the sidelines and watch him. At first, the hits would take my breath away as I waited for him to stand up between plays. It took a while for us to get a system down where he trained me to watch for the tap. 

It's well known in football that you take full advantage of every down second you can when you know you're coming out the next play. A gentle tap in the grass would be my queue on the sidelines, signaling the difference between a true injury and a few extra seconds of down for teammates to catch their breath while his playability was being determined. No tap signalled a reason for concern but only twice in his whole career would that be the case. 

Mom-ing is hard. As mothers, we are our own worst enemy and critic. We beat ourselves up over what we've done, what we could have done, what we should have done. There are times we wish we could gently tap the grass, longing for a few extra seconds to breathe. But rarely do we have that convenience. 

In our middle son, God crafted a young man who was named leader of the team every single year that he played. It wasn't his charismatic personality. It wasn't his will power and strength of voice to command. It was by gentle service and encouragement to his teammates. Why then, would I be surprised the night God used him to encourage me?

I often bounce things off of him, mostly because we think the most alike. I am able to take his gentle nudgings and rebukes easier than any of our other children. It's not because they're wrong and he's right; it's because of the delivery. 

In the quiet, darkness of driving home from his girlfriend's house, I told him some things I was struggling with. Mistakes I had made in raising them and how all of those things are so crushing at times that I feel like a failure. I feel like all of the bad things that have and do happen are my fault. I didn't protect them. I let them down in my depression. I didn't push them hard enough when I was supposed to and too hard when I wasn't. 

Then. It was silent. 

I thought maybe I had gone too far. I mean what 20 year old really wants to do therapy with his mom? 

His gentle voice pierced the darkness as tears welled up in my eyes. 

"You see mom, it's like when I was quarterback. There were things that happened beyond my control. Maybe the ball slipped as it left my hand, maybe it was a bad snap, maybe it just wasn't my night. At any rate, I let my team down that play. They would be upset with me but only because they weren't in the position to do my job. I always did the very best with what I had been given. I could either keep dwelling on that play, the moment it messed up, their feelings of letdown and tank the rest of the game or I could apologize to them and move forward to the next play. 

Only once did I let it get into my head and Coach Dale pulled me when he saw it happening. I was able to think clearer on the sidelines and was ready to return to the game. But I never gave up.... You have to move on to the next play."

Next play was code with the Lions for "well that screwed up but let's recover and press on..." How many times had I myself yelled that from the sidelines? But here in my own head, in my own mom-ness, I was unable to let things go and move on to the next play in order to salvage the game. 

I've never been so thankful for a dark drive home as the tears rolled freely down my face just listening to him. He was willing to meet me where I was, encourage and rebuke me simultaneously, in a way that the two of us had shared for nine years. 

Feeling like a failure dissipated as wonderment took its place and I heard those words coming from my son. My son, whom I had raised, telling me to shake off the dust, breathe deep and move on to the next play. 

He didn't learn "next play" from all those years of bible study. He didn't learn that having watched his perfectionist mother struggle with her constant feelings of failure. He learned that from a group of godly men who invested in his life to build his character and ability to forgive himself in order to move forward. 

To all you mommas, pat the grass, take the few seconds of timeout, dust yourself off, breathe deeply, and get ready for the next play. This game is far from over. 

To all you coaches, thank you will never suffice for the investment you made in our sons.