For the first time in 22 years, I came home from school to an empty house and began a new season of life. If I'm honest, a season of life I've pretty much dreaded since I started having children. I love my arms full. I don't know how to not have my arms full. I love noise, distraction, activity, movement, busyness, and all the chaos that can accompany fullness. But I can't keep my arms full simply because I'm afraid of what it looks like without my people to hide behind.
Today, I felt myself take a deep breath and exhale for the first time in 22 years. Not because I'm happy my children are gone during the day. I'm not happy about that. I love them home. I took a deep breath because there's space to do that. Margin. For the first time in a really really long time.
I've had to remind myself all day:
It's okay for my kids to have experiences that I don't direct.
It's okay for my kids to be in circumstances that I can't control.
It's okay for me to not see my children every minute of the day.
They have a Heavenly Father who sees them, orchestrates their days no less diligently than He orchestrates mine, and He is working for their good...and it's okay if that good comes through other people. Selfishly, I kind of want to be the giver of their good.. I want every good memory to come from my hands. I want to see every moment of their life. I want to control everything for them. Because maybe I can keep them safe and protect their precious hearts and minds if they never leave my sight. Today, I'm having to trust the Lord MORE because I can't see all my people. I'm having to trust the ONE who can.
As we walked to school, i gave my last minute instructions. Be kind. Look for the kid that has no friends. Be strong. I love you. Put on your mask.
They walked away, side by side, and only Hope looked back to wave. I followed them with my eyes until the sparkly unicorn backpack disappeared through the school door.
And then I turned to walk home. A horizon of hours in front of me.
And it's okay. My heart aches a little. The memories of a house bulging with littles is just that...a memory. All I've known and the people I've loved as long as I remember can exist outside of my sight at this moment. And it's okay.
I walked home empty handed, but still full. I've had to stop living as though someone is missing. When Zach went to college, every high and low we lived without him felt somewhat incomplete because he wasn't there sharing the moment. That's a hard way to live...as though someone is always missing. Wishing all were there. Living as though those in front of you are somehow not enough. Does it have to be all, does it have to be full to be meaningful? Can there still be fullness in empty hands? Can there be fullness in silence? The answer has to be yes. The answer IS YES. This...these...whoever is in my home at the moment...or the silence that fills the space is exactly as God has planned for me in this moment.
When my littles walked off today, I didn't weep like I envisioned. I sent them in knowing that their Heavenly Father can use other people to love on them today...and that's okay. I've felt so scatterbrained in the last couple years that I'll often startle in the midst of an event trying to remember where I've put my children. "Was I supposed to be picking someone up?" "Where did Hope go?" "Did I miss something?" I had the same thought halfway through my walk home. I stopped abruptly and thought "Oh shoot, where did I put Hope?" And then I remembered that my empty hands were exactly as they should be. And it's okay. And they aren't really empty...my hands are just resting a while...
I'm not really sure what this season of life looks like, but it happens to every mama sometime in life. Today, it was my turn to turn the corner into that new season and have to trust that God has gone before me.
One more hour until they come home.
Lord, let me faithful with the new time you have given me.
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