A River

“Motherhood: All love begins and ends there.” ~ Robert Browning

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There was food to prepare and mattresses to fluff, sheets to wash, woodwork to dust and deskwork to complete. Bring it on I grinned, my heart dancing at the mere thought of our adult children–all of them– circling the dining room table once again for a few fleeting days.

My favorite people came home for Thanksgiving.

***

It is a terrible and beautiful thing to bid farewell as sons and daughters move away, skipping headlong into their own lives–with jobs, friends, spouses, and children of their own. The phantom pain is real. A physical amputation from my four beauties.

All those years of ongoing banter, inside jokes, vibrant conversations, football games, piano recitals. Stuffed animals and Calico Critters, Matchbox cars, and Legos. Read-alouds, multiplication facts, and mountains of groceries. Food that seemed to vanish before I could shelve it neatly in the pantry.

And the coffee pot, Old Faithful. Dripping, steaming, and huffing all day long.

Our family’s unique hardships, heartaches, happiness, and hopes forged an imperfect yet resilient togetherness. A tender gift from God.

This old heart of mine, pulsing shadows and light, is prone to wistful remembrances, turning over those olden days and tearing up, just a little.

Which surprises me, still.

I am convinced that no earthly love may rival a woman’s heart stitched to her children. A mother’s love is primal.

***

A godly mother is a steady river, her loves the tiny boats traveling her back. The boats observe, trusting the gentle waters that guide, protect, and nurture through life’s unexpected curves and rapids. Little boats sense the tempo and flow, learning and growing and trusting. The river moves, gently steering her own toward the great ocean of Adulthood, where she will bid adieu to her precious ones.

After many years of slow days and long nights, the moment arrives: sunny, cold, and bright. It is time for the river to meet the ocean.

She releases her boats–one by one– into the briny sea. As she raises their striped sails, the wind whips and the current tugs. The river smiles through tears and waves goodbye as her children’s sails swell, bending and cruising away to unknown waters.

One by one her boats disappear into the horizon.

The river is both proud and reluctant: happy and hurting, strong and sad.

***

Every hug, comfort, Band-Aid, Bible verse, prayer, song, correction, joke, apology, ice cream cone, board game, spelling word, backyard race, song, encouragement, birthday cake, football game, music lesson and read-aloud matters.

Motherhood matters.

And it will not thrive if left to fend for itself in the margins, life’s crevices, like some waning hobby.

Motherhood is the work.

Nurture and strengthen those little boats now. Love and train them. Give them the gift of your undivided attention. They do not need more things. They need a present, godly mother. Understand that time is short; this season is fleeting.

As you go, rest in God’s kindness and his grace. Pray for wisdom and stamina, and meet God humbly each morning in the Bible. Enjoy your little boats, who are a blessing.

Trust God, the One who called you to this river dance.

***

Over Thanksgiving week, everyone gradually arrived, bustling about and filling our home with beloved noise and laughter: a mother’s delight. The coffee pot rose to the occasion, full of dark roast: Thanksgiving Blend. Strong sons roamed the kitchen, their old, favorite mugs in hand, conversation flowing, and I realized just how much their absence had become a presence. My husband wandered in with a smile just as our daughter descended the stairs, rounding the banister.

For thirty seconds we were together in the kitchen, just the six of us, like old times, days when conversations were natural; our language easy. A lump rose in my throat and I blinked. This moment was a mirage that could not hold, a season forever gone, and I knew it.

Life is different now.

Our daughters-in-law and son-in-law gradually emerged from other rooms and our grandson raced into the kitchen in his footed pajamas calling my name, a sound most sweet. He hugged my legs and asked for gummy bears. I scooped him up and kissed his handsome face, saying: Yes! Of course! to as many gummy bears as he wanted.

My heart returned to this precise and beautiful moment in time.

May my presence never be an absence, I prayed.

Today is a brilliant gift from God, full of divine purpose that I refuse to miss.

***

Motherhood does not dry up and blow away when children become adults.

Its duties, however, do tumble and shift, quite violently, and it takes time for a mother to gain sea legs in this raw season of life. Time and patience are needed for the heart to catch up with what the head knows to be true.

Once the boats set sail, the wise mother becomes an anchored lighthouse rather than a flowing river.

Although her love remains as deep as the deepest ocean, it is time to relinquish her precious boats. When the last one skims away, rising to meet the future, a mother does well to become a lantern light in the tempestuous seas, a beacon in the pitch of night, burning brightly with the steadfast hope of Christ.

***

My favorite moments in life prove natural in origin, lovely; and unscripted.

On Thanksgiving night, as everyone lounged, sleepy and stuffed, our thirdborn son and I lingered in the dining room, as he explained the inner workings of his recent songwriting, measures that were most interesting. And then, after a time, he offered a gift:

Want to hear my latest songs?

Yes, please, I said with no small delight, and then added, Can we all listen?

He grinned and found his guitar, and soon eleven of us piled into our living room, stepping over and around each other, pulling in extra chairs, hugging soft pillows, and muting the football game. Our grandson, hair slicked from his bath as he awaited bedtime, was invited to stay up late. He proudly carried his tiny guitar into the fray, and stood transfixed, studying his hero-uncle, who strummed as he sang.

The lot of us fell hushed–the moment tender; holy.

It swept my heart away, the beauty of worship, the prize of thoughtful lyrics grounded in the Word. I glanced about the room, feeling the impossible whoosh of time, the goodness of God, and a surge of gratitude for our growing family, anchored in Christ. What an underserved blessing.

As our son played, God was near, his Spirit working and churning my soul. I realized with a flash of clarity:

I am no longer the river.

My beautiful boats have sailed and only temporarily returned.

Motherhood is precious, isn’t it? It is not about me but remains an exquisite mantle designed by God for his good purposes. He is Master, growing our family tree, and while I am no longer a river, I long to be his lighthouse, burning brightly for my children and their families.

That living room worship hour was my favorite part of our Thanksgiving week. Our family praised God in unison, a foretaste of heaven, one that I wished would never end.

It will be an entire year before we are, Lord-willing, all together in our living room, once again.

***

Missing my grown children no longer feels like the jolt of birth pangs, but more like a gentle invitation to savor God as I seek to serve him and others. I have labored long to accept that a piece of my heart will always miss our four loves.

The Lord has gently gathered up all of those seeming loose ends of this season and fashioned a bouquet, bountiful and fragrant, beauty that I inhale with trust and anticipation. I now have more time to pray, serve our growing family, write, disciple women, and pour into our church. I enjoy various weekends with our grandson sprinkled throughout the year, unhurried times of playing trucks and trains, frolicking at the park, and reading the good books aloud.

Yes, God has revealed a strong purpose in this new season of life.

Even so, in the fading light when the house is still, save the thumping tail of our dog or the sleepy purr of our cat, I smile, sailing over the crested waves of good memories, reminiscing when we were once upon a time a family of six, clustered in a diminutive living room, laughing and singing as our son played the piano with wild abandon, his feet not even touching the floor as we clapped and roared. I loved those days, way down deep.

The rushing river of my heart that once raced wide down the slope of time, was a love that flowed over stones and pebbles. My mother-love is now a lighthouse, shining steadily over the ocean’s salty crests, waiting to welcome my beauties home.

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“Whatever season we are in, and whatever kind of nurturing work we are doing, and however long our season lasts, life in Christ is our new normal. And it will still be thirty trillion years from now. We are in a season of life in Christ forever!”

– Gloria Furman, Missional Motherhood