I will always miss you little. You were the one who turned a woman into a mother. When they placed you in my arms, I knew that life would never be the same, love would never be the same. There is no love like mothers love and only then, as I held you, did I understand how deep and how strong love could be.
You were a tiny bundle of magic and miracle.
So many hours I cuddled you close, kissing perfect fingers and tiny toes. In the midst of those early days with their endless nights, it seemed we had so much time. But, you have grown so tall, changed so much and as I watch you now, in all the awkward glory of pre-teen pubescence, the moments that made up the years spanning then and now flood my mind.
I remember pink bows and Easter dresses as we shop and I see your style.
I remember lullabies and songs hummed through sleepless nights as we sing loud to the radio and I hear your melody.
I remember first words as we talk and I hear your hopes and dreams.
And although I will always miss you little, I love you nearly grown because in this awkward glory of pre-teen pubescence, I glimpse her, the woman you are becoming…
Dear oldest child – It’s true. Motherhood is a tumultuous journey. I am learning how to navigate these waters of motherhood just as you are learning to navigate life’s storms and struggles. First steps don’t come without first falls so please, be patient with me. Remember that even though I sailed these same seas as a child, this is my first time as a parent and it’s a big ship to sail. I make mistakes and I get off course. You likely feel the frustration of my inexperience, and envy your younger siblings who will navigate these same waters in your wake. They will benefit from the mistakes I make on this first voyage, but you and I will always have these firsts, as mother and daughter. But don’t think their trips will be any smoother – I seem to be a slow learner!
I sat at the table, head in hands, not knowing if I was capable of going. Not this day. This day, I just didn’t know. “Do I have the strength?” “Do I have the energy?” “Do I have the will?” I didn’t know, and there I sat, just staring at my shoes.
That’s when I heard it. A soft, yet strong voice within whispered, “Just put on your shoes.”
It was just one of those days, the kind where nothing seemed to go right. Even though on the outside, I looked just fine, I just couldn’t breathe. Every inch of me screamed. I wanted to just lie down, but knew my mind wouldn’t rest. I wanted to just give up, but knew my heart wouldn’t stop, so I listened to the voice that whispered, “Just put on your shoes.” I inhaled deep and exhaled long, slipped one foot in and then the other.
These shoes are not old, but old enough that the laces are just right and they are stretched just a bit in all the right places. They support and they comfort. I inhaled deep and exhaled long, stood up, put one foot in front of the other and walked out the door.
Every runner knows that some days, the hardest part of a run are the steps you take before you get out the door. Other days, it’s just all hard and the best you can hope for is to simply put one foot in front of the other and keep moving forward. I don’t remember what kind of run I had that day, what kind of pace. I don’t recall the route or the distance, but I do recall needing to run, needing to breathe. You may not need to go running, but maybe there is something. Something that you need to do. Something that you know will help, but you just don’t know if you have the strength. On those days, listen to the whisper and “Just put on your shoes.”
sometimes, when the heart pushes, mind and body respond, but sometimes it’s all heart, only heart that gets me to the finish
there will be times I feel like quitting, but I won’t
some days, putting one foot in front of the other is all I can do, but on those days, that’s enough
Running reminds me… What reminds you? If you haven’t found it yet, keep looking. If you have found it, keep doing it. Let it remind you, because when you are weak, and you need to slow down; when it’s hard, and you feel like quitting, you’ll remember. And in your heart you’ll find your strength and you’ll keep putting one foot in front of the other, and that’s enough.
So here I am, here we all are, in the midst of a pandemic. These are unusual times. I feel it. As I go about my day, doing the mundane tasks of laundry and lunches, I feel it. It feels different, everything feels different. And it isn’t just that the kids are home when they would normally be in school, or that I grocery shop for 2 weeks rather than 2 days, or that we don’t leave the house for gatherings with friends, or that the wide world of sports has come to a screeching halt. Yes, all of these things feel different, but there is something more. There is an unsettling, an uneasiness, that seeps into my very soul. Sometimes I feel it more strongly than others, but it’s always lingering there. I think it is the uncertainty. There is just so much unknown. Like I said, these are unusual times. But, when I really look at the beast of uncertainty, I recognize it. Because even though it seems so large and ominous right now, it has been there all along. I have faced it before and I’m not the only one.
On any given day, of any given week, there are husbands that kiss wives good bye for the last time, there are mothers who send children off to school for the last time. We have faced it in unforeseen illness and accidents. So yes, I have faced uncertainty before, we all have, and it’s always there, so why does it feel so large, so strong, in these times? It seems to me that our current circumstances have pulled off the blanket of false security with which I am usually covered. You know the one, the perception of control. And now, in the midst of this pandemic, I recognize it. I recognize it fully. I see it completely, no blanket hiding it or hiding me. I am now completely exposed to the full force of uncertainty with numbers and news changing daily. I have no idea how many people will be infected and how fast. I have no idea what the consequences will be personally, locally or globally. Experts keep trying to predict, but there are too many moving parts, too many variables. The simple truth is that only time will tell and we just have to wait.
I am not very good at waiting. I am used to fast service and next day delivery, instant messaging and Netflix. This is the society in which we live. It’s fast and it’s convenient, but now I have to wait. I waited for the news of first cases in our country, then our state, then our community. I waited for closures, cancellations and new mandates. The waiting has just begun. I will keep waiting until we get the first signs that we have seen the peak and then the fall (I hope), but I just don’t know when that news will come. So as I find myself face to face with this beast of uncertainty, no longer shielded by my blanket of false security (you know the one, the perception of control), I am picking up pennies. I am not picking up pennies for any financial purpose or gain, but as a reminder. Inscribed on every penny, are four little words, “In God We Trust.” These are words I can cling to, because in these uncertain times (and all the times before), God is in control. So, in the midst of all this uncertainty, I’m picking up pennies.
I walk into work with head hung low, as sorrow and regret fill eyes and leak down cheeks. It has been one of those mornings, the kind that leaves you wishing for a "do-over", the kind that leaves you questioning, the kind that no one prepares your mom heart for. It's one of the hard days, and it feels long even though it's just begun. I shove hands hard and deep into pockets, partly in defense against the cold and partly in defense against the raw exposure of heart ripped wide because that's the raw you don't want seen. And that's when I feel them, two cold metal "coins"; a boy's treasure.
One day, not too long ago, he placed this treasure he holds dear, in my hands for safe keeping. He trusts these hands, even with his treasure. For weeks, maybe months, the treasure remained in my care. He may have forgotten, but I'll return them safe. And when I do, I'll remind him that I've held them all this time, held his treasure. And I'll remind him just how much of a treasure he is to me, because sometimes I speak harshly, and I don't want him to forget. So all day long, I clasp coins in palm and I remember. I remember that even when I think he should behave as if he's grown, he isn't, he is just a little boy. He is just a little boy, His treasure, that He has placed in my hands for safe keeping.
As Holiday season is about to begin,
We know that we'll gather with family and friends.
As we gather around for Holiday feasts,
There are bound to be some empty seats.
For some, it's the first time a loved one's not near,
For others, the seats have been empty for years.
They say it gets easier with the passage of time,
But their journey through loss may be different than mine.
So know if a seat sits empty this year,
Your heart may feel joy while your eyes brim with tears.
I hope that seat at your table that's bare,
will serve as a memory and gratitude chair.
Sit down with in it and pause for a prayer,
Thankful for the love that between you was shared.
Time is so fleeting and too soon it has passed,
But Holidays are for memories and memories last.
Sometimes, at the end of the day, I wonder if you know how much I love you...
I wonder because even though I spoke the words, I yelled too much, I was impatient and sometimes unkind.
Sometimes, at the end of the day, I wonder if you know how much I love you...
I wonder because even though I spoke the words, I wasn't fully present, I was distracted and I didn't really listen.
Sometimes, at the end of the day, I wonder if you know how much I love you...
I wonder because even though I spoke the words, I barely saw you, I worked late, you stayed in your room and I wasn't with you.
Sometimes, at the end of the day, I wonder if you know how much I love you...
I wonder because even though I spoke the words, I failed to 'thank you' for all you do, I took you for granted and was ungrateful.
So even when I'm impatient, even when I'm distracted, even when I'm not near, even when I'm ungrateful, at the end of the day, I'll sit by your side just a little longer, I'll hug you just a little tighter, I'll lean in close and whisper soft, because at the end of the day, I just want you to know how much I love you.
It isn’t the big kid voice, with a growing vocabulary and precise pronunciation. It’s the loss of the squeaky voice and mis-spoken words. It’s not realizing how much you’ll miss talking about “rucks” and “tars”. It’s not realizing how much you’ll miss requests for “hamburbers” and “spabhetti”. It’s not knowing the last time you hear it is the last time you’ll hear it.
It isn’t the growing that gets me, it’s the loss of the little. It’s how growing up happens word by word and all at once.
It isn’t the growing in of molars and permanent teeth. It’s the loss of baby teeth and no more toothless grins, and it’s not knowing it’s the last time they’ll leave a tooth under their pillow until it’s the last time they leave a tooth under their pillow.
It isn’t the growing that gets me, it’s the loss of the little. It’s how growing up happens tooth by tooth and all at once.
It isn’t the growing into new found interests in video games, dance and sports. It’s the loss of the innocence it takes to believe in a talking mouse and a monkey’s mischief, and how you don’t know it’s the last time they’ll ask for Curious George at night, until you realize they’ve stopped asking for Curious George at night.
It isn’t the growing that gets me, it’s the loss of the little. It’s how growing up happens interest by interest and all at once.
It isn’t the fact that they can tie their own shoes or button their own coats, it’s the loss of the little toes and little fingers, and it’s not realizing that you are holding a chubby little toddler hand for that last time until you look down and realize that big kid hands have grown where toddler hands once were.
It isn’t the growing that gets me, it’s the loss of the little. It’s how growing up happens by fingers and toes and all at once.
It isn’t the fact that they can reach the cups and pour their own milk, it’s that they no longer fit on your lap and it’s not realizing it’s the last time you’ll carry them to bed until you realize you can no longer carry them to bed.
It isn’t the growing that gets me, it’s the loss of the little. It’s how growing up happens inch by inch and all at once.
It isn’t the growing that gets me, it’s the loss of the little. It’s how growing up happens day by day and all at once.
Mother Runner 