The Light Never Fades

It seems silly, I know.

Those unremarkable choices.

I sometimes take the long way home, for the beauty but mainly for the memories. Instead of pulling the first right, the direct route, I take the second, and my heart warms. One of our sons sparked this preference, opting to slow the pace by the less traveled path, reveling in the beauty of a magnificent maple, burning on the corner. The verdant, clipped lawns sit pretty on this lane, as the cluster of sprawling hydrangeas falling against the white picket fence yields a regal, hushed beauty. He enjoys this gentle way so I now follow suit, alone as I take the winding way home; grateful for the gift of my son while also missing him.

***

I intentionally roll the grocery cart by the lone section of frozen foods to glimpse the cream puffs, and I rewind fifteen years, remembering another son’s little hand in mine.

Can we buy cream puffs, Mommy? I always wanted to try them.

He is on a special date– alone with me–quite the rarity in our large family. I look at his handsome face and toss budgetary caution to the wind, handing the cashier a twenty and grabbing our bag as we race each other to the van, laughing; breathless, wind in our hair. We munch cream puffs the entire drive home. I glance in the rearview and he is grinning while telling me a little fairytale, blissfully unaware that a wisp of cream is streaked on the tip of his small nose.

***

Or this…the tattered bookmark that I purposefully repositioned in my Bible just this morning, one that another son crafted for me in Sunday School over twenty years ago. That day was so wonderfully ordinary but magical. He held the thin treasure before me, a shy offering, his favorite color now laminated and given to me to mark the pages of my beloved books. I squeezed him tight, kissing the top of his head; undone by the kindness of God to grace me with this little person, this son. I love you, Mommy, he said in a burst of affection, his voice forever gravelly.

That bookmark? Priceless.

***

I dust her bedroom slowly…lifting the stuffed bear that once upon a time meant everything. She discovered him at a church garage sale with: Mommy he was looking at me and waiting for me to buy him!

We paid a dime, and from that moment he was stitched into the fabric of our family, sitting at the edge of our dinner table with his own miniature plate, traveling on every errand and adventure. He was even the proud recipient of Christmas gifts complete with his own miniature stocking. I knit checkered scarves and soft blankets for this small grizzly, as my daughter’s eyes sparkled. When I smoothed her sheets come bedtime, there he was, a little bear brushed up against her cheek, dutifully claiming his spot on the pillow.

My little girl is now a woman, but the bear remains. He has been loved to a fare-thee-well, and although he is, at least for now, mainly forgotten, he keeps careful watch like a faithful friend, waiting.

***

Each quiet remembrance of our children inclines me to pray. And it is tender–painfully sweet way down in my bones. To be able to stand still and thank God, to cup their four stunning faces before him, a fragrance whispered from the heart of a fragile, sinful saint.

Prayer and memories and love–my invisible aroma before the Lord.

This is a different type of mother work. No more tying shoes or brushing baby teeth or reading books or packing lunches or penciling playdates. They are adults, making their own way in this corrupt and shattered world, fellow heirs of Christ busy with their own schedules and duties and families. Who am I to even have this highest honor, the holy privilege of crying out on their behalf, to our King?

To be their mother is my joy, my dearest delight; the sweetest ache on earth.

The longer way home, the cream puffs, the bookmark, the bear. Quotidian, unremarkable things–plus the hundred more moments that I hold close, privately pondering and treasuring in the deepest of places–remind me to come to God and pray for them without ceasing.

The light never fades; the work is never done. No one but God hears or sees my utterances, but the joy, the bowed head, the bent knee, and the fullness of love carry on, rising heavenward.