Rite of Passage

Jack has recently learned how to climb backwards down a set of stairs. He’s been climbing up them for quite awhile now, but he’s finally realized he can’t go down head first. So, when we are not in a rush to get out the front door, we’ve been carefully letting him climb down all by himself. Today, as I opened the gate and dragged a laundry basket toward the opening, Jack walked right up to the top of the hardwood entryway stairs to investigate. I didn’t panic—he’s so good about sitting down, turning around, and swinging his chubby little legs over the edge until he feels the next step beneath him—but I admit my heart did beat a little faster.

And then, in what seemed like an eternity of gut-wrenching grief, I watched him lean forward as he tried to sit down, and topple head over heels all the way down the stairs. I yelled and dropped my basket and tried to grab him but he was falling too fast, and all I could do was watch and listen to his little head bouncing off the wooden steps and pray to God that he wouldn’t break his neck. By God’s amazing grace he landed on his bottom and not his head, but as you can imagine he immediately began crying that child-cry that lands somewhere between scared and truly hurt.

But what happened next was unprecedented, at least for me. I myself began sobbing. I raced down the stairs, scooped him up, and just sobbed. He cried for about ten seconds, and then was just content to be held against my heaving chest and wet cheeks. At one point, standing there on the landing of our front door, he pulled away from my body and just looked at me, puzzled. Then, in one of his sweetest moments yet, he laid his head back on my shoulder and began stroking my arm. This, of course, just made me cry more.

I think I cried for a good twenty minutes. And I’m not talking just general tearfulness—it was, as Oprah calls it, the “ugly cry,” with all the huffing and heaving. I just couldn’t stop. (By this point Jack was happily playing with his toys again, occasionally looking over at me with what I would like to imagine was concern on his face, although it was probably just a fascinated glance, as I’m not sure he’s ever seen an adult cry before!)

While I was sitting there letting it all out, I realized that my reaction was part grateful relief that he was okay, and part guilt that I hadn’t been able to stop him from falling. But in the next moment it occurred to me that this was a rite of passage of sorts—I almost felt as though I had reached a new level of motherhood. I thought back to all the times in my life when I was hurt—times when I fell out of trees or crashed my bike or got bad splinters…and even in later years, as my heart was broken by boys or friendships, or when I had all my foot surgeries…and later still, as I gave birth to my own child…is this how my parents must have felt? That helpless, heavy-hearted pain of wanting so badly to protect your child and yet knowing in that instant that you just can’t?

As a mother, when your babe is growing inside you and then birthed from your own body, a love is born in your heart that you just cannot imagine or describe. But along with this love comes fear. I know that this is probably the parallel of good and evil in our world…the God-given love tainted by the sin-ridden fears and anxieties that threaten to capture us. And maybe there are people who are so deeply rooted in God’s Spirit that they don’t fear for their children…but I admit I am not one of them. I wish I was. I wish I didn’t worry so much about Jack’s safety and well-being. Better yet, I wish I didn’t need to worry so much…that this world was perfect for my children so that there were no scary monsters or child-hurters or cuts and scrapes and no stairs to fall down.

But that is not the case. We live in a world that is fallen. We can only protect our children from so much. I strongly believe in protecting them from what you can, while you can—that’s my job as a parent—not to be their friend, not to make them happy, but to provide a safe environment for them to grow and flourish. I often compare parenthood to gardening—when my children are young they are like newly planted buds that are helpless and vulnerable to the winds and harsh rains. If I were to plant them on the side of a cliff where they were exposed to all the fierce elements of the world, one of two things would happen: either they would not survive, or they would grow into tough, twisted, ugly, withered shadows of what they were meant to be. No—my job and my desire is to plant them in good, rich soil, protecting them from these elements while they are young and vulnerable, to water them faithfully and let them soak in the pure light of the sun…so that their roots will grow deep and strong. And someday, when they are ready, they will be exposed…but by God’s grace and strength, my prayer is that they will be strong enough to withstand the tempest winds and rain, that in the scorching heat of day their roots would be so deep that they would be continually watered and fed from within…that “They will be called oaks of righteousness, a planting of the LORD for the display of his splendor.” (Isaiah 61:3)

Getting down off my soapbox…

As I stood there today holding my firstborn son, the best gift of my life, and wept over him, I found myself being filled with thankfulness—Thank You, for watching over him! Thank You, for keeping him safe when I could do nothing! We had passed a milestone—a major incident that had the potential to be life-threatening—and he had survived. Somehow I feel stronger now (although I still feel terrible every time I see the big bruise and scrapes on his forehead), knowing that my heart survived, and that God held my baby when I couldn’t…what a comfort to my parent-heart. My prayer now is that I would never, ever forget that no matter what happens, God is the only perfect parent, the true Protector, the One who is with my children in every instance—even the ones I cannot be a part of and cannot protect them from—and that even when life brings broken bones and broken hearts…He is everything we need…our healer, our comforter, our Father. Thank You, Lord, for mending my mother-heart today.