Having children brought out a crazy, fierce, protective nature in me. I wanted more than anything to protect you. To shield you from pain. Then and only then would you know how dearly you were loved and cherished. I still to this day am shocked that God chose me to be a mom. Not just any mom, but your mom! You were born with such exquisite beauty. People would stop me just to comment on how gorgeous you were. I wanted to say “I know, can you believe she’s mine?” but I would just smile and say thank you. I used to make a mental list each night before I fell asleep, did I spend enough time with you, read to you enough? Did we do enough? Was I enough? As you grew, I saw this amazing person forming. An artist, a brilliant thinker, a natural leader. The pied-piper of life. I delight in thinking about what a care-free spirit you were!
Then came the tumultuous years. You know. I don’t want or need to remind you. You’ve beat yourself up enough. But I wonder if you know, really know, that you were worth every ounce of struggle? Every tear I shed was not shed in regret, but in pain. Your pain is my pain. Your struggle is my struggle. By choice, my darling girl. You were worth every minute of lost sleep, every prayer, every everything. You still are, always will be. And as life tries to throw a cloak of shame and regret on you, I will continue to stand sentinel with a box of matches to set the shame on fire. You struggle to be independent, to be on your own. What you don’t know yet but will discover when you become a mom is, where you go, I go. Not in body, no it’s much deeper than that. It’s my heart. It willingly goes with you. Into the darkest forest, the fiercest storm, the longest night. To shield you, to light a match, to walk with you so you are never alone. I encompass you with my prayers and have seen how mightily they have been answered. I’ve seen the hand of God on your life over and over again. What you don’t realize is that you are a living miracle. Created with perfect intent and purpose. And a fierce one at that.
So when you said you didn’t believe in God anymore, my heart didn’t leap to fear. Because I know what it’s like to love you. To be so madly in love with you child. I know what it’s like to wait for you to come home. The eager anticipation of your return. I know what it’s like when you turn your full attention to me, really engaging in the moment. I know the joy you bring. The laughter, the smiles. I know what it’s like to love you first, before you were capable of thought, I adored you. And I know the prodigal son always returns. The story never changes. I don’t want you to return to me or for me. I want you to run into Your Father’s arms. To the one who made you so wondrously. To the One who taught me to love you so. If I, with my completely flawed heart can love you so much, I can’t even imagine how much God the Father loves you but I do know it’s perfectly. He took the time to put so much extra into you. So much. When He makes someone with so much, you had better believe they have an amazing purpose. I want so much for you to know that.
Since your revelation our language has become stunted. The water that flowed so freely now feels like hot lava. What do I say? What will drive you away? Is there anything I can say to draw you closer to the throne? Harder still is to say nothing. Danger seems to lurk in the nothing. You precious child, I adore you so. But if this is what it takes, for you to travel miles from home, to a faraway land, to know, really know in your heart that your Father was for you all along then I want you to know I will be waiting at your homecoming party. Your Father stands on the hill and awaits your return. He is waiting to run to you with His arms wide open. To throw His cloak over your shoulders, to put His signet ring on your beautiful hand. To show you, you are His and He claims you no matter where you’ve been or how far away you’ve traveled. To throw a party in honor of your return. I will be there! I anticipate your return with almost as much joyful excitement and anticipation as He does. Almost.
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Photo Credit: Bobbi Adams