The road behind me is littered with things lost and forgotten, things devalued and discarded. At times, I look over my shoulder with a sense of relief, with a lightness that comes only from the laying aside of weights that were never mine to carry. At other times, though, I stumble on the road, for my eyes and my heart seem tethered to all those things I have lost, and grief rises up in me with such force that I can hardly breathe. I wonder about that promise in Joel 2, about the restoration of the years that the locusts have eaten. I wonder how it can possibly be true. Does God restore lost time to us? Does he give back our wasted days? Can he return lost innocence? What of marriages ended and children buried and dreams long abandoned?
There’s not much discussion among Christian parents about all that is lost with the coming of children. It seems ungrateful, perhaps even dangerous, to consider such a lavish gift in a negative light. But I have grieved over many things that I lost when I became a mother. The path that runs through these years is strewn with lost time, lost health, lost sleep, discarded priorities, abandoned plans, and forgotten solitude. Sometimes it hurts. Sometimes it looks like waste.
But, with the loss have come unforeseen gifts. Sara Groves speaks of them in her song, “I Can’t Wait.” She looks forward to the arrival of her children with genuine anticipation, imagining how she’ll teach them to tie their shoes, to count, to kick their legs out on the swings, and turn the pages in their favorite books. All that joy, though, pales to the excitement she feels when she considers what her children will give back to her. “And you’ll teach me of hearts and dreams,” she says, “and all the most essential things, and all that I have lost upon the way. And I can’t wait.”
On a leg of my journey so marked by loss, the words of her song are a great encouragement to me. I find that my children are restoring some of what the locusts have eaten. Without my ever expecting it, they’ve recovered some of the things I have lost upon the way.
Somewhere along the journey, I left behind a sense of anticipation. It’s fresh in all our minds, perhaps, because of Christmas and the sight of our children’s joy when they see their stockings or gifts on Christmas morning. They spent many weeks anticipating those gifts. But my daughter recently showed me a whole new picture of anticipation, when I was in bed with the flu. She’d already had the flu, and was on the way to recovery, but she couldn’t bear the fact that I was in bed, and away from her. She crawled under the covers beside me and repeatedly offered me my “lasses.” She chatted with me about this and that. At one point, I was awakened from a feverish doze by a very cold, pudgy finger inching its way into my ear. What’s funny and wonderful about my daughter’s behavior is that it showed her anticipation, her eagerness, for Mommy to get up and be well again. She could sit in bed and wait, full of hope, for almost an hour, knowing that soon Mommy would get up, and there would be games and snacks, and everything would be as it should be. When did I discard my ability to anticipate the coming of good things? Did I cease to believe that there was anything left to eagerly await?
Tenderness is not really a part of my personality. I’m not particularly gentle or nurturing. But, regardless of my natural bent, I want always to have a tenderness towards the deep, moving truths that have formed me, that define me, that hold me together. Somewhere in the hubbub of church activity and scripture memorization and choir music and activities and retreats and books and blogs and so on, I lost my tenderness and sensitivity to the Gospel. Imagine how moved I was when my son first wept over the story of the crucifixion. “Why did he have to die, Mommy?” he asked, his face stricken, his eyes streaming with tears. Something thick and leathery that was wrapped around my heart tore open a bit that day. What a gift to see the old stories again through the eyes of my children!
I’ll mention just one other gift, though there are many. My children have restored to me an understanding of immediacy. I have spent many years focusing on tasks, pushing everything and everyone aside in the name of productivity. “As soon as I finish this,” I’ve said. And then I’ve dismissed someone’s genuine need, ignored some fleeting gift from my Beloved, pushed myself beyond the breaking point. But my children force me to raise my eyes from the pressing nature of whatever is always in front of me. They force me, with joyful persistence, to see the fading layers of flaming color that the sunset has painted across the sky, to admire their latest work of art, to abandon the dishes so that I might dance to the music.
How I love them, and how grateful I am for a God who, in the strangest and most unexpected ways, makes a gift of what was stolen from me, who pockets the things I have lightly esteemed so that He might return them when I understand their value, who remembers the weighty and lovely things I’ve forgotten, and who finds, even in the darkest corners of this broken world, all that I have lost along the way.
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“I Can’t Wait,” by Sara Groves
When you reach the proper age
I will teach you to read and you can turn the pages
How to dress and tie your shoes
Your one plus ones, and your two times two’s
And you’ll teach me
Of hearts and dreams
And all the most important things
And all that I have lost along the way
And I can’t wait
As you grow, I’ll show you things
How to ride your bike and kick your legs out on the swings
To fold your hands and bow your head
How to say your prayers before you go to bed
And you’ll teach me
Of hearts and dreams
And all the most important things
And all that I have lost along the way
And I can’t wait
How do you sleep so peacefully?
How do you trust unflinchingly?
How do you love so faithfully?
How do you dance so joyfully?
Oh you’ll teach me
Of hearts and dreams
And all the most essential things
And all that I have lost along the way
And I can’t wait
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Featured Image by Paul Boekell
She never saw any of this coming.
She also had no idea of becoming either a mother or a writer, yet here she is, living in Nashville with a husband and two kids and three published books to her name. She ponders the humor of God and the strange adventure of living while she drinks kombucha on the porch, or plans new homeschool units, or reads everything from Emily Bronte to Dave Barry to Betty MacDonald.
You can find her books and an occasional poem or some such at www.helenasorensen.com.
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Thank you, Helena. My husband and I have not yet reached this life stage, but we see it coming closer, bringing with it a list of things that we will lose (we are, perhaps not the most optimistic ones in the world). So–thank you for your reminder of God’s faithfulness, even in areas where we might see only loss.
Beautiful, Helena! I especially love your last paragraph before the song lyrics. In my six decades of living, I’ve seen God do this again and again. It’s always amazing!
Thank you, Helena. Just… thank you.