Unclenching My Fist

I think there are 2 kinds of kids out there.  In my family.  Well, ok, more than 2.  But what I think about a lot, especially when I look at my kids, is how I can divide kids into 2 groups.  A child is either a Runner or a Stayer.  They are either desperate to get away from you and see all there is to see, or they are determined that you will never leave them alone, not even for a minute or two to pee.  One type is kicking out Morse Code in the womb "Meet me at the nearest playground in 2 years." just hoping his unseen buddies get the message while he (or she) saws away at the umbilical cord w/ his secret file.  (what, none of you have seen that on the ultrasound?)  The other type resents you forever for letting go of your end of the umbilical cord.  He does, although he will never admit it and might even go off and get married some day.  It's a ruse.  He'll be back before you know it, smushing in between you and your husband just when you thought it was safe to stop locking the bedroom door at night.  (what? Who me?! No! I never lock the bedroom door!)

As luck God would have it, my first two kiddos were Runners, so I thought it was cute but puzzling when my third turned out to be a Stayer.  *This* child actually held my hand whenever I wasn't carrying him, unlike a certain child who ran off while on the Cape May Ferry to go hang over the back edge where there was no guardrail.  *This* child's feet never voluntarily left the ground, unlike a certain child who climbed 30 feet into a pine tree at dusk and then got stuck but was so high up we didn't know where the little voice was coming from.  However, my Stayer is big for his age, so the hanging-on-me-constantly palled by the time he was 4 or 5.  Plus, my fourth kid has turned out to be that incredibly rare mixed-breed species, and I can't tell from one minute to the next whether he is a Runner or a Stayer.  Hooray, the worst of both worlds.

A few weeks ago, I was not thinking about the differences between my Runners and my Stayer when a little package arrived in the mail.  I opened it and discovered a gift from my husband's brother and his wife - a series of talks given by a former missionary to Irian Jaya.  As I listened to the first one, which was about giving up his "rights," giving up his expectations for possessions, I was inspired, but in a heart-untouched way.  After all, standing in front of your house as a fire rages over it catches your heart and shows you right there and then how important your possessions really shouldn't be, and kind of makes a recorded talk pale in comparison.  Not that I'm perfect in this area, but, well, I'm learning.  Then the speaker tangentially mentioned that he also had to learn to give his kids to God, and the Holy Spirit whispered in my mind's ear.  (This doesn't happen often, by the way, so I pay attention when it does.)  He asked me if I had given up my kids.

As it happens, I actually started my motherhood journey holding my children lightly.  My mom had died far too many years before, and I had seen first-hand from the other side that mothers do not always get to see their children grow up.  And, thanks to my husband's DNA, most of my kids were also born with breathing issues.  Our third - the little Stayer - was a whopping, full-term, 9 pounds at birth (which means that he was about as far from being at risk as is possible) and still spent several days in the hospital with RSV when he was a few weeks old.  He also had pnuemonia for an unknown number of weeks later that winter.  I sat up watching him breathe more than I slept.  Yet I had every confidence that God was holding his life in His hands.

But somewhere along the line, things had changed.  My fingers were clenching down around my kids.  They were mine to raise and mine to educate.  Every time things went less than perfectly around here, *I* was the one who was being wronged, and I let my kids know how upset that made me.  It wasn't pretty.

My first reaction to the Holy Spirit that evening was "No!  I mean, Yes!"  But then, I thought about what it can mean to truly give up your kids.  Mothers do not always get to see their children grow up.  And I thought, "Well, I want to, Lord, but I don't know if I really completely can.  I'm not sure I can trust You."  (Yes, I figured that complete honesty was the only way to go - since I was dialoguing w/ God after all.)  The conversation seemed to end there.

It wasn't even a week later that the conversation continued about how my Father really can and does take better care of my kids than I can.  Since my husband does occasionally read this blog, I won't go into details about how it came about.  So.  I will stop right there.  And just say that there was a Grave Communication Breakdown.  And so it came to be, that at almost 8pm (after dark mind you!) I realized that my 4yo and my 7yo had been left at a playground at the township soccer fields.  Left alone with nobody in the world they knew except each other.  For at least 20 minutes.  My 7yo the Stayer.  The child whose greatest fear (for no good reason, I swear) (OK, until now) is that he will be left behind.  The only child who I have actually promised, out loud, that I will not leave behind.  Multiple times.  Like, on a monthly basis.  And my 4yo who, let's face it, will always be my baby, whether he's Running or Staying.

One of my sisters saved my sanity by praying with me as my husband drove the 20 minutes (give or take) to the playground.  I snapped out of hysterical worry to realize: I knew 2 people who might or might not be at the soccer fields, and if they weren't there, I was going to have to trust God.  Trust God.  Of course, you know that neither of the people I wanted to rely on were there.   But then I had two additional people praying while I waited.

Waited to learn anew how God cares for me.  Waited to learn anew how God cares for my children.

Waited to learn that I had been holding them too closely.  Calling them mine.  When they are not.  They are His.  Lent to me for a time.  And He can care for them much better than I can.

Waited to learn that they were safe.  Waited to hug and kiss them all over, and tuck them into bed (or watch them fall asleep on the sofa).

Later that night I overheard the 7yo ask the 10yo very quietly, "Have you ever been left behind?"  That little stinker thought very carefully - I am quite sure he was evaluating his parents' performance to date - and slowly answered, "Probably."  Then he shrugged and said "But I don't remember."  Why would he care?  He's a Runner.

So I took my sweet not-so-little Stayer in my arms again and promised him that God loves him and will take far better care of him than I can.  He says he knows that already (ouchy blow to my pride, although I could look at it as good teaching on my part, I guess).  I guess it's a good thing one of us knows, because I still have a lot of conversations with God ahead of me about this.



~Stephanie