Growing up, I chased after my mom like a bright ball of yarn. I was the baby of the family. Like a leaf that follows you into the house or the last spoonful of peanut butter clinging to the sides of the empty jar, my family wasn’t expecting me when I showed up one afternoon as an extra pink line.
My teenage sisters would go to the movies and the mall, my big brother would roam the forest with neighborhood friends, and I would stay in my flannel nightgown with my pile of Barbies, following my mom from room to room as she busied herself with house chores. My mom never snuck off to the grocery store without me. I would be waiting at the front door, shoes on the wrong feet, mismatched clothes, a crooked smile and a stubborn resolve. At night if I heard the water pipes whistle, I ran up the stairs, stepping out of my pants, my underwear, disentangling my arms from my inside out shirt, and climbing in beside her in the hot bath, before she could turn me away.
When I look back, I can’t remember what we talked about. I can’t even tell you what she made for dinner most nights or what our bedtime routine looked like. What I remember was she was there. Her reassuring presence, her patience, her reliability. She was mom- the person that gave me comfort, the person that loved me through scraped knees, and bullies, and the awkward uncertainty of being a kid. When life felt like too much for my little kid shoulders to bear, she was there, so I didn’t have to go through it alone.
Sometimes as a mom, life feels like too much. In the midst of uncertainty, I dial my mom’s number and release an incoherent stream of anxiety, and resentment, and excitement, and fear. My emotions bubble over and spill into her lap in a stream of tears, and laughter, and sometimes just tense silence. There’s little of our conversations I can remember. I can only remember a handful of the advice she has given me over the years. But in those moments, what I need most is my mom- and she picks up, she listens, and she never gives up on me.
Often I question what I have to offer my children. The days come and go like the flash of passing traffic on a busy road. At night I feel like I have no more of myself to give. And the weight of motherhood rubs calluses on my small square frame.
But God reminds me that its not about the words I have to say, its not about my talents or my own ability. He calls me to show up, so that His power can be revealed in me. How often I want to run and hide because I feel like I’m not enough! But sometimes the greatest thing we can do is just show up, to just answer the phone, to never give up…and trust. Trust that we won’t be alone.
“I was with you in weakness and in fear and in much trembling, and my message and my preaching were not in persuasive words of wisdom, but in demonstration of the Spirit and of power, so that your faith would not rest on the wisdom of men, but on the power of God.” 1 Corinthians 2:3-5 (NIV biblehub.com)
Last night I tucked my 2 year old into bed. We read our book, and prayed, I gave her two round kisses and I turned out the light. Her soft murmurs that usually give way to the silence of sleep, erupted into wales.
I cracked open the door, “Yes baby?”
I climbed in beside her in the toddler size bed. We lay there, two lovebirds, nose to nose, giggling and whispering until she surrendered to the weight of sleep. I kissed her head, and got up to finish my night time chores.
I know she won’t remember all that I say. She won’t remember every cuddle, or band-aid, or glass of water in the middle of the night, but she’ll know I was there.