As much as it depends on me I’ll lose, I’ll defer, I’ll wait.
Not because I’m weak, even though I am. Not because I’m less than, even though I happily consider you greater. Not because I’m not able, not willing, not right. But because I want to walk with you through the night. Through the light. Through the hard days and long days and everyday normal days.
As much as it depends on me I’ll look for ways to bridge a connection between you and me and the everlasting.
As much as it depends on me I’ll make a home, a good pot of soup, a place to relax and laugh and hold each other. Not because I’m stuck here. Not because it’s home. But because I want you to know that home is a place you’ve only felt a little of here.
As much as it depends on me, I’ll keep walking with you. I’ll slow down, even stop, even wait, even ache, even bear the pain of all the shame that comes with forgiving. Not because I can’t escape. Not because there is no other way. Not because you are my only way to feel whole. But because I’ve already found the way.
I’m already promised Shalom. I’m already alive and free and no one can take that from me. I lay it down willingly.
This morning before I headed out the door for work, when you were about to jump in your truck and drive to school, I looked up at your face anxious about what you don’t want to face, curious about what you won’t say until it’s too late and then you’ll want to find a way to make space for a debate-
and I grabbed your green eyes with my teary ones and laid a mantle on you like a weighted blanket. The kind they use for overstimulated senses. And I said,
“Son, you can run. You can deflect and avoid reflecting on the truth, but you were born to know the One who made you curious. You can’t get away. He’ll never stop pursuing you. He wants you.” And you rested.
Your shoulders settled. Your eyes relaxed. Your fingers stopped. And I stopped too. Stopped worrying about you for a minute standing under that weight of glory.
This year I watched the world burn with anger and lies I watched my sons wallow in the mire and I prayed.
This year I watched my friends build theories about conspiracies and I watched my neighbors wave their flags high.
This year I heard cries for justice from the least of us among us and felt strange disdain from those who I thought would claim the fame of Jesus and gladly refrain from blaming
…but they didn’t.
This year I heard a woman say, “I can’t bear the grief anymore,” while one side of her body tried to dragged her to the floor and I stood close and propped her up and helped her see the ones she loves through the window on the third floor.
This year I cried for deliverance “How long,” can I keep asking you to grant repentance?
This year I felt overwhelmed by the throngs of elders left alone to let someone else find them shelter
and we stood by.
This year I sat next to Job and decided to shut my mouth and hold his hand.
This year I opened my mouth and said, “Follow Jesus with me!” to the friend who cried not knowing what she could possibly do with her falling apart life.
This year I realized I couldn’t see past the thorn in my side and the plank in my eye and almost decided to give up.
But what? What is there to let go of except the delusion and illusion that this coming year or another person would bring Shalom.
This year made me long more for home and King and the ones he’s redeemed.
It was never intended for you to be mine
Only that my womb would be the secret place where you were knit
Only that my body would bear the pain that gave you breath.
It was never meant that I would get to keep you close
Only that my days would be crouched low telling you what you did not know
Listening and smiling at your every coo
Wondering at the fact I get to raise you
It was never the plan that I would keep you from falling
Only that when you did I’d come running
Holding you close while you were crying.
It was never my role to teach you everything
Only to rub that spot on your back all knotted up
While you told me you didn’t feel like you would make the cut.
It was never meant for me to hold you tight
To keep you from sin’s deadly plight
Only that I should proclaim to you
The good news that could make you new.
It was never scheduled that you would stay
Only that while you were away
I would pray, and pray and pray…
You were born that way.
One day you will leave
And it is not me to whom you will cleave
Only to another
Someone never meant to be your mother.
You work so hard
as if the hours you spend
will make everything right.
Then it rains on your freshly poured concrete
and a sudden wind bends the trees you just planted
and the test is positive- you’re going to have a baby
and your cursing
can’t make anything right.
The grass grew though you swore it would never
The trees stood tall after the storm
The concrete dried
The child was born
and you figured out how to hold him.
And one day, I pray
You’ll figure out
He’s holding you.