His is but a “jaunt over the pond”. Six months of travel and school. I had two travel farther, travel longer, together. And I was fine. Or at least I didn't mind. And I'm glad for him. Truly! What an opportunity! What an adventure!
Maybe I'm only trying to convince myself, or even fool myself, into believing that it's the same. This walking, away. But this morning I find my heart being strummed by ache, playing the tune of loss. His journey merely opened the door to hers. For she preceded him, by nearly a year. Just as I accompanied him for as long as I could, I had accompanied her. I hugged him tight, before I needed to release him so he could travel forward. Hadn't I done the same for her, knowing, oh, knowing, it was time to let go?
He asked me if I would be okay. He'd seen my tears. “Absolutely!”, and I smiled despite the trail weaving down my face.
I think, if I could hear her, she would want to know the same, for she would know, so fully, know, that it will be. That I will be. She'd want to make sure that I knew that too. I wish that I could boldly declare, ‘Yes, I'll be alright’, even as the sobs escape me. What is it that prevents me from allowing her, in my own heart, to have this opportunity, this adventure? Isn't that what heaven is? An opportunity to be with Jesus? An adventure in worship and experiencing God’s glory? Why am I so reluctant to have her leave?
Oh, I can fool myself into believing that his is but a short journey and hers? It's too long! Hers is permanent. Forever. She won't be coming back. Yet I find, both require this releasing, this allowing them to journey on, to move forward. I gladly did so for him. Why not for her?
I think the honest answer, the one with truth-I-don't-want-to-hear, is this: I don't want to. I want to have my own way. I want to decide when they leave and when they return and of course, I deserve to have them return! The truth is, God is in charge and I am not. He can see the whole panorama and I can see mere snatches, (if I don't blink and miss them.) I want to have my daughter in my presence rather than allowing her to feast upon His. I want to have my heart comforted by sweets or TV or another book, rather than have the Comforter. Near. I wanted to have a say, a choice, in this whole matter of her leaving. I got none. No say. No choice.
That's the honest answer.
So on a morning, when my heart is strumming ache, I find myself repenting of demanding my own way; yielding to Him who has the whole story in mind, and weeping silent tears, as only a mama can, over her children walking. Away.
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