While on a run this morning, a tiny spotted fawn crossed in
front of me. It leaped over potholes in the road, its backdrop a bright blue
sky and newly colorful leaves. I followed it with my eyes as it raced into the
trees, but I couldn’t place its mama anywhere. All I could see was the fawn and
the immense beauty of the world in almost autumn – the orange sun, clear
horizon, lush forest – picture perfect setting.
But I feared for the baby- alone in the forest. What would
come of it?
The appearance of the fawn was meaningful for me, because as
I was running I was thinking about my own children. I was feeling the weight of
being a mama in a time like now, when it seems more likely that the sun will
suddenly melt and shower the world with lemonade than there ever being peace
from all of the unrest. Evaluating the world in its current state through the
lens of a mother has evoked in me the heaviest emotions I’ve ever felt.
I’m an empath. A walking emotion, I’ve been called. This
season has taken the (inedible) cake for me. I’m overloaded with emotion –
others’ and my own. I wonder if other moms are experiencing this lately.
Typically, when I feel too much, I write it out. My novels all
started as heavy feels; I wrote them more for the catharsis than for others to
read, but these days, I don’t write much at all. My heart is perhaps squeezed
too tight to release any of the anxiety or sadness. My head is too polluted
with the most recent catastrophic finding or event.
And how it will eventually affect my daughters’ lives.
My hands have been clenched in worry and in prayer. I’ve
spent way too much time reading a gazillion opposing articles on all aspects of
Covid-19, the U.S. Constitution and my rights as an American, child-trafficking,
racial injustice… The list goes on. I try to balance the news I hear, to weed
out the agenda and somehow isolate truth with which I can make good decisions
about school and health issues and finances.
Decisions that will directly affect my daughters’ lives.
I bite my lip and pray some more as they head off to school,
“masked up” and armed with what we’ve taught them at home, knowing that a virus
is the least of their concerns when they walk into a classroom full of peers
who they worry might judge their outfit or their words or perhaps exclude them.
I trust that all of their teachers truly care about them as individuals, but I
still wonder what happens inside their classrooms. I reach out weekly to school
administrators with research on current practices for schools, hoping that other
parents are doing the same and that my voice will make a difference in their
decisions.
Decisions that affect the physical and mental health and
well-being of my daughters.
These days, I find myself fighting. Often. Against the
culture. Against perceived norms. Against the tide, it seems. And, I think to
myself – I was not made for this. I am not
a fighter. I was made to write inspiring words, not to research and report and
be ready with an answer about every issue under the 2020 sun.
And I’m so dang tired.
And I feel like the weight of my children’s world is on my
shoulders.
My. Children’s. World.
It’s a lot of weight. And it’s important
And sitting back and writing a story about heaviness is not
enough right now. Some call it Instinct, some say it’s God’s voice, but it
tells me that now is the season to race into the forest and protect my babies,
even when they push back. Even at the risk of being judged, of losing friends.
Even though I’m not a fighter, I have to fight for what’s right. For them.
For their world.
For their future.
It’s. Heavy.
So if I seem like I’m not quite myself lately, it’s because
I’m not. If my smile doesn’t quite reach my eyes, it’s because I’m drowning,
and it’s hard to smile when you feel like you can’t breathe.
The weight of my children’s world is on my shoulders.
I carry it into every battle, even though the fight exhausts
me. Even when the forest is on fire, I sprint through the burn, the world on my
back, trying to shield my babies. I can’t
just stand still and fake a smile. Flames of slander and isolation can lick at
my flesh, but I won’t stop.
It hurts. But - I can’t stop!
And I can’t let go
of the weight!
Because I’m a mother.
And the weight of my children’s world is on my shoulders.
It’s heavy. It’s crumbling. It’s a beautiful disaster, and
it’s the world they’re going to inherit.
And, if I’m honest with myself, there may be nothing I can
do to make it better.
But I can’t lay it
down.
This evening, as the sun was sinking and the sky bled orange
and pink, my oldest daughter was driving home. She’s a new driver, and she was practicing
while I coached from the passenger seat. My other two girls were in the back,
arguing over the window being down, the music being too loud, whose turn it was
to talk. I was distracted, trying to still them when suddenly a deer jumped
into the road in front of our car.
My typically frenetic daughter calmly pressed on the brake.
The car went quiet.
We were safe.
And the safety wasn’t my doing at all.
I looked at my baby, her hands on the wheel, her cheeks
pink, and I exhaled.
“It’s okay,” she said.
For a moment, the heaviness of 2020 life dissipated.
I’d let go, but God hadn’t. He’d covered us- with safety,
with light, with control.
And, later that night, when I lay my head onto the pillow, knowing
full well that sleep would not come easy, I reminded myself that no matter how
much I try to control a situation, it’s ultimately God’s will that prevails.
Do I trust him?
I do.
Does that change the fact that every day when I send my kids
out the door, “masked up,” and ready, that it feels like I’m sending them into
a flaming forest?
No.
Because I’m still a slave to my emotions when it comes to my
kids. They are perhaps my idol, I’m ashamed to admit. I continue to see the
collapse of normalcy around me and fear for their futures, even though my
middle daughter reminds me that their futures are sealed for them already and
that I need not worry. In my head, I know she’s right, but the heart is a big
fat liar.
Does trusting God change anything then?
It does.
Because after the girls are on their respective buses and I
sit down in the stillness with only God for company, I can sift through what is
important and what is not. Unlike the unreliable news that squawks into my
kitchen from the TV and contaminates the feed on my social media platforms, God
doesn’t change. He’s there offering the same things He’s been offering my whole
life.
Grace. Comfort. Rest. Wisdom. Sureness.
A moment to breathe.
And so many more gifts.
All I have to do is carve out the time to accept them.
So, does God’s presence squelch my urge to fight?
No.
Because although I know this world is not the end-all,
be-all for me or for my children, that it is only our temporary home, it was
still created for us. And I believe it is still worth fighting for.
The weight of my children’s world is still on my shoulders.
Because I’m a mother.
But my children are God's children first.
We have a Father who strengthens us for battle. I wear
His full armor.
And, despite the flames of hate and evil that seem to be
engulfing the world my children and I stand on, I am confident that, under His
wings, we will not burn.
