It feels an impossible task to capture these moments - each one seeming as though it will be forever, while our Jack continues to prove to us that we are, in fact, incapable over the control of time.
I don't drink my coffee hot anymore; I'm slightly behind on the happenings of the world; my days are lived in 3-hour increments; my sentences sometimes take longer to construct -- but living each day with this little guy somehow brings the most immeasurable joy. It has been said that a child is "your heart outside your body," and that is the closest phrase I can use to express what exactly life feels like right now.
There also exists fear -- looming in the background, mischievously trying to stifle the rest to be found in the present moment. I have never known fear like this -- the kind that debilitates and sends me spiraling to deep lies I am even afraid to admit are there. I am afraid of his 2's; afraid that I will long for these days as a baby and that it only gets harder. I am afraid I won't know what to do as I parent moment to moment; that I won't be a good enough Mom for him. I am afraid for the first time his feelings are hurt, or his body gets hurt, or - even worse - his spirit is hurt. I'm afraid for when he tells me to stop kissing him in public or that he doesn't need me anymore and wants to do things by himself. I'm afraid he won't want to know Jesus or reject the Church or tell us that our beliefs are all lies. I'm afraid for him to experience loneliness or sadness or confusion or fear.
Perhaps one of the best things about babies is their innocence - completely untouched and untainted by other humans or burdens of life. In so many ways, I want to fight to keep it that way. But the transformation comes from the wounds; the journey is marked by overcoming the hardship; and every one of my fears will most likely occur. The truth is, I can't keep Jack from experiencing life - and I would be stealing from him if I were to protect him from the challenge and difficulty. It is in those moments that character is formed and identity becomes rooted. Over and over again, I remember that I have to surrender his life to God, and that He will give me the grace I need to guide Jack through the day to day. I'm not perfect -- and that is the whole point. Henri Nouwen writes: "never trust a Christian who doesn't limp." We all partake in the collective human experience of suffering - and it is our wounds that bring validity to our story.
I am shedding layer upon layer of trusting myself instead of Christ; control instead of surrender; striving for perfection instead of transparency. While I know that God has entrusted me to teach and guide Jack as he grows; He has also given me Jack to refine and form me. I must remember that God is presently bringing me to Himself in every opportunity He can. He is here with me now, in this season, changing my heart to be more like His.
I don't drink my coffee hot anymore; I'm slightly behind on the happenings of the world; my days are lived in 3-hour increments; my sentences sometimes take longer to construct -- but living each day with this little guy somehow brings the most immeasurable joy. It has been said that a child is "your heart outside your body," and that is the closest phrase I can use to express what exactly life feels like right now.
There also exists fear -- looming in the background, mischievously trying to stifle the rest to be found in the present moment. I have never known fear like this -- the kind that debilitates and sends me spiraling to deep lies I am even afraid to admit are there. I am afraid of his 2's; afraid that I will long for these days as a baby and that it only gets harder. I am afraid I won't know what to do as I parent moment to moment; that I won't be a good enough Mom for him. I am afraid for the first time his feelings are hurt, or his body gets hurt, or - even worse - his spirit is hurt. I'm afraid for when he tells me to stop kissing him in public or that he doesn't need me anymore and wants to do things by himself. I'm afraid he won't want to know Jesus or reject the Church or tell us that our beliefs are all lies. I'm afraid for him to experience loneliness or sadness or confusion or fear.
Perhaps one of the best things about babies is their innocence - completely untouched and untainted by other humans or burdens of life. In so many ways, I want to fight to keep it that way. But the transformation comes from the wounds; the journey is marked by overcoming the hardship; and every one of my fears will most likely occur. The truth is, I can't keep Jack from experiencing life - and I would be stealing from him if I were to protect him from the challenge and difficulty. It is in those moments that character is formed and identity becomes rooted. Over and over again, I remember that I have to surrender his life to God, and that He will give me the grace I need to guide Jack through the day to day. I'm not perfect -- and that is the whole point. Henri Nouwen writes: "never trust a Christian who doesn't limp." We all partake in the collective human experience of suffering - and it is our wounds that bring validity to our story.
I am shedding layer upon layer of trusting myself instead of Christ; control instead of surrender; striving for perfection instead of transparency. While I know that God has entrusted me to teach and guide Jack as he grows; He has also given me Jack to refine and form me. I must remember that God is presently bringing me to Himself in every opportunity He can. He is here with me now, in this season, changing my heart to be more like His.
