Posts Tagged ‘back-to-school’
The house is quiet now. Way too quiet. And way too orderly. Only the ticking away of my Mom’s grandfather clock, reminding me that time moves on.
For 38 glorious days, our home has been filled with the voices of children. My ten favorite children, to be precise. Shouts and giggles and fun and laughter and crying and bickering and “time outs” and whispered conversations between cousins coming from the “craft closet” (our master bedroom closet, repurposed) and loud games interspersed with “No, it’s my turn!” . . . You get the picture. 38 days of glorious chaos.
And now they’ve all gone home. As I write this, I shiver with remembrance of that unforgettable sentence about Hannah after her annual visits to the temple to see the son she had dedicated to God: “Then they would go home.” (1 Samuel 2:20b) Not quite the same, for sure. But still, the going home.
Our recycling and trash tell the story. Well, part of it anyway. Yes, the party’s over and they’ve all gone home. But I am left with so much more than the after-the-party remnants. I am a different person. More exhausted, to be sure. But so much more. I am a grateful Nana filled with new memories made over the past 5 weeks.
Games of Candyland and Chutes and Ladders and Sorry and Animal Bingo. Stories read, some by me and some by the children, who range in age from 10 years to ten months. Pirate stories told by “Farfar” (their name for Woody—“father’s father” in Swedish). Trips to splash parks and playgrounds and petting farms and the gorgeous York Beach in Maine—and the Lego Store and Build-a-Bear and the much-loved Superstore of Used Books. Diapers (“nappies” to my Irish crew) changed and tears wiped and grievous wounds cured(!) by Dory or Star Wars bandaids and nights of protest (“But it’s not bedtime yet!”) and disputes of nearly international scope about who got the most wiffle-ball pitches from Farfar. What seems like hundreds of hot dogs and PB&J sandwiches and pizzas and birthday cakes and ginormous ice cream cones consumed.
Ah, summer with grandchildren. I really didn’t want it to end.
Yet as I write this, I am reminded of summers long ago when I felt a bit more ambivalent about summer’s end. The start of school looked pretty good then! ☺ So as I ponder (the end of the annual summer visit) and miss (all of them!) and cherish (such precious memories), I also think of all of you moms out there. Some of you also missing grandkids who’ve gone home. Some counting the days ’til school begins (please Lord, soon!)—or wishing your kids were old enough for school! Others celebrating because school has already begun in your world. And then those moms who’ve made that first long journey (long whether an hour away—or thousands of miles) to college. For all of us, those mixed emotions that come with being a mom/grandmom.
May we always be grateful. May we always savor the memories. And may we always have the necessary strength that comes only from the Father of us all (and the joy as well). Summer, we salute you . . . it’s been oh, so lovely.
It’s that time of year again. Malls are full of back-to-school shoppers. TV ads blare back-to-school sales. (I’m reminded of my favorite ad from years gone by: a woman waltzing through a store gathering school supplies for her kids and belting out, “It’s the most wonderful time of the year . . .” ) A daughter-in-law prepares, with a full heart, to send both her kids off to school for the first time. And mom Facebook friends have been posting since early August: “It should be time for them to go back to school by now, right? Right?”
Then there are the conversations. “We just took our first child off to college . . .” “I’m so proud of her . . . but how do you do this?” It’s not the going: The excitement and trepidation and drama of getting ready. Lists checked off. Bedding and supplies gathered. Goodbyes to friends. The iconic packing of the car. The trip down there, with lots of silence in the backseat. The butterflies in the stomach (all stomachs in the car, that is). The trepidations about The Roommate. And then the excitement: New places. New friends. New vistas. Courageous smiles. No, it’s not the going.
It’s the coming home. Without them. Just you and him (if you are fortunate enough to have him). When we took our first son to college, I had just—ironically—finished the lesson on Hannah for our Mom to Mom curriculum. Hannah’s words had been our verse when we dedicated this boy so many years ago: “For this child I prayed . . .” (Read, if you have the courage, the rest in 1 Samuel 1:27-28.) Through the driving rainstorm between here and Williamsburg, Virginia, God gently reminded me: “Did you mean it, Linda? You know, the part about “as long as he lives, he will be lent to the Lord”? Do you think you can trust me with him across state lines?”
Little did I know that was just the beginning. There were two more taking-kids-to-college trips. Then three long (and joyful) aisles to walk down. Deployments and ministry careers and a mission trip that became a life across an ocean. Countless exciting trips to and many long flights from. And there’s Hannah again: Each year she made a special little robe and went to visit her beloved Samuel at the temple where she had committed him to God’s service. “Then they would go home.” (1 Samuel 2:20b) It still gives me chills every time I read it.
I’ve just done it again. Except in reverse. All our kids were here this summer for varying and overlapping visits. Sheer joy. Nana Heaven. Ecstasy, really. We read books together (Nana’s fav) and played games and went to the beach and the pool and ate lots of pizza and ice cream and had cousin sleepovers and celebrated a BIG birthday for the much-beloved Farfar (the grandkids’ name for Woody—it means father’s father in Swedish).
Then they went home. Home to New Hampshire and Virginia—and Ireland. All of them. Home to busy, God-directed (thank you every single minute, Jesus), meaningful lives which give us joy. Great joy. But still, they went home.
So you can imagine how these words hit me from the August 23 reading in Jesus Calling:
“Entrust your loved ones to me; release them into My protective care. They are much safer with Me than in your clinging hands. If you let a loved one become an idol in your heart, you endanger that one—as well as yourself . . .When you release your loved ones to Me, you are free to cling to My hand. . . . My Presence will go with them wherever they go, and I will give them rest.”
Oh yes, and there’s more:
“This same Presence stays with you, as you relax and place your trust in ME. Watch to see what I will do.”
The other day I was talking with one of our sons about a big moment coming up in his life: sending his first son off to kindergarten. We reminisced about his own first day of Kindergarten, a day I will never forget. There we were, both Woody and I (he had taken time off from work to come home and see Bjorn off) standing at the bus stop in the rain, waving through our tears. I’m not sure that Bjorn was crying. But we both were.
Fast forward 13 years. A long drive across 7 states and over 1000 miles to take him to college. More rain. More tears—lots of them. Windshield wipers going the whole way—both outside and inside. And a new realization: This motherhood thing is even harder than I’d realized. One releasing after another. And another. And each releasing feels somehow physical. There’s an empty feeling in the pit of my stomach that by now, many years later, has become familiar.
So just last week this same son (the one whose first son will soon be off to Kindergarten) sent me a link to an article posted on The Gospel Coalition blog entitled, “The Truth about Pain in Childbearing” by Jen Wilkin. I really resonate with her perspective. I’ve always believed that parenting affords a unique opportunity for spiritual formation. And this blogger sheds a great deal of light on why and how that is.
A favorite part: “Childbearing saves me because it faithfully (albeit painfully) reminds me over and over again that I am weak. It reminds me that I am not self-sufficient, that I do not have what it takes to protect and preserve my children, but that my heavenly father does. It saves me from the belief that I am God.”
I hope you’ll read the whole article.