I make my rounds each night holding my breath hoping they’ll breath theirs strong. Say last prayers with a kiss, grateful for warm cheeks meeting my lips, rising ribs beneath my palm. I brush gentle upon their foreheads, soft across hair, wondering why loving is so full I could burst with gratitude and so hard I could wilt. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to give all to these little lives, everything I’m capable of, for a life lived better than my own. Daily it dawns on me fresh how incapable I am of everything I hope to be as I strive to guide them toward what I can only glimpse they’re meant to be and it’s all a precarious too precious road.
I want them to thrive, to be kind, to know God’s love and people’s love and self love in easy ways that are hard for me to grasp. So much more than potential and success of this worlds contriving, I hope for good hearts, beautiful spirits, character that does what is noble and right. So much more than goodness for pleasing’s sake, I hope for wholeness living abandoned to what one’s been created for; ability to embrace fault and flaw within and without, see space for grace, inside and out, and the potential that shadows cast for seeing with more depth and feelings more real.
If I love so deeply then why do I live so imperfectly? If I long to be the best I can for them, why do they see my worst? When I read and study and teach and yearn to know right strategies, research, narratives, and antectodes, why then do I still lose my temper over sibling squabbles and spilled milk? When I know it is all par for the course and atleast 5 positive ways to handle it better than I do. I have patience, and good skills, and a heart so full to be sure, but shards of glass sometimes cause me to crack, laying bare how we are all so very broken.
I was having tea with a dear beloved nurturing mom friend while our children played at our feet, literally crawling under table and chairs. She watched her mature son’s rambunctious play cause a fragile dish, gifted, from another country, fall from the table to bits. As he hung his head in shame she said, “No, son” and made sure their eyes met, “it’s not things that matter it’s people. It was just a cup.” Her words were gentle and sure. I was moved because she was brave to speak what makes my heart sing. So why do I still sometimes shatter when things shatter and shatter the ones I love most when I’m tired or lonely or feeling unlovable? Having been a witness to her strength of composure and grace, I loved her even more, my own children more, and even made room for myself more to break cups on good days and bad, and hold the face of the beloved between soft cupped hands with strong seeing eyes willing to witness it all and still say, “its you, above all this mess, that matters.”
Perfectly held, however imperfectly loved, we are given these gifts of life so divine, so precarious so strong, praying against all wrong done to us and born within us, that we might not be so rambunctious as to shatter spirits, but rather strengthen souls. Let us be diligent to hold precious the cup up, beyond our own hands, to seek after sustenance overcoming ourselves, yet doing our part to will our wildness to love abandonedly better than we’ve ever known, so that those who go after us might better represent He who went before us.