This is my last Boy Mom post. Five years I’ve been telling these stories. Stories of adoption, faith and family. Stories of five boys, now young men. And me, their mom. I started as Mommy Boy, a name Luke gave me when he was young. I loved this little nickname, and the significance of it. I love being the mom of boys.
I’m not done writing, nor parenting either, I suppose. Just moving. Again. Ironic. First packing our house of twenty-three years into the Big Blue Box. Now packing up posts from a season of life, and taking them with me to a new domain. A new website with a bit more space and organization. But for today, a last post. As Boy Mom.
Sunday morning, this past weekend, I grappled hard, over being a mom. First alone, in the townhouse basement, in private prayer. Then riding shotgun, silent, the twenty-five minutes with my husband to church. Name-tag in place, greeting families at the Resource Center. Heading to service. All the while grappling. Over being a mom.
Two married, three in college. An “empty-ish nest” season, whatever that means. This weekend it meant everyone home for a cousin’s wedding, sleeping over, brunch at Grammy’s, my current home. This growing family. And Maisy. Growing, too, taking her very first steps.
So. Sunday morning, I’m talking to God, grappling hard, and asking the question. Is there a way to do this well? This new season, and I’m realizing quickly, if I’m to keep pace with all this growing, I’ll need to do it, too. The growing.
My role here is changing. The Dad’s role, too, but different. They’ll still need Dad for help with finances, home repair. How to put in a sump pump. Dad will always be the best boat driver. Always, probably, be a decent-enough partner for a round of golf.
But what about Mom? (This is me grappling, not whining. There’s a big difference, and you’ll need to catch my tone.) I am, at the core of my being, by spiritual gift, occupation, and parenting, too—a teacher. Some moms work wonders in the kitchen. Like Grammy. This, I now see, is an exceptional gift, because it lasts through the ages. Like golf. But a teacher?
Of course, there are the grandkids. Little bodies ripe for story time, and learning ABC’s.
Nature walks. Field trips. And I can hardly wait. But still. I’m not just Nana. I’ll still be Mom.
A few years ago, when Grant was in high school, we’d go together, before the sun came up, to Morning Prayer. A half dozen or so teens, fresh from mission trips, enough residual passion to make it out of bed at 5AM on weekday mornings, to go church. To pray. A miracle of sorts. And I remember this well. Walking circles with teens, barely awake, whispering prayers out loud. It was there in that sleepy circle it hit me. Gripped me. This prayer over boys and life and all the other things besides. God, I trust you. These four words, etched deep in my spirit, carving their path, making me—me. A whole season of parenting teens, saying yes to adoption. Hinged on this prayer, I must have prayed it a thousand times. “God, I trust you.”
“God, I trust you.” And Sunday morning it hits me again. At church. The Other Pastor Randy preaching, talking about Paul. Paul, the converted persecutor of followers of Jesus, transformed, turned missionary, 5AM zeal and then some. My friend, Randy, talks about Paul, and the lightbulb goes on. Two things, he says, are true. True about Paul, and they’ve been true for me, too. Even though, just lately, I’d forgotten, somehow.
Two things: Paul, single-minded in his devotion to Jesus. And Paul, living his fearless life.
Two things, true about Paul, and two things, I can say without boasting, true of me, for a season, too. I’d read a story in a magazine, not long ago, about a mom. A tragic, awful, story. But this mom knew Jesus, and she was fearless, and she reminded me. Of a former ME. I said this to Angie, sitting in dock chairs Thursday morning, out at the lake. “I used to be that kind of fearless.”
For a season. Not me by nature. By nature I’m scared as they come. No, not me at all, but Him. And because of Him, I was fearless. A whole season of parenting boys, and this one prayer never failed. “God, I trust you.”
And so. Sunday morning, I’m talking to God, grappling hard, and asking the question. Is there a way to do this well? This, being Mom to young adults, this new season. And it’s not the answer I expected. Not the answer I would have come to on my own. But it’s the answer HE gave me, and—It. Is. Perfect.
Perfect. This prayer that never fails, and I can be Fearless for a new season, because of THIS. God, I trust you. I do.