Happy Mother's Day to Me

It's Mother's Day, after church, in the kitchen, and I'm making lunch.

My 15 year old son emerges from the basement after playing a round of Fortnight with his buddies. He looks at me across the kitchen and smiles. He walks towards me, bends low and puts his long arms around me, embracing me in a long bear hug.

Knowing that he has not yet wished me "Happy Mother's Day", that I had to pull him out of bed this morning and that he was the reason we were late for church (again!), I think, "This is it!"; he has just clued in that it is Mother's Day and he is going to love on me for being his Mom! His embrace lasts long enough that I get lost in an ocean of thoughts...

...remembering so desperately thinking he was a girl before he was born (to the point that I too emphatically yelled, "What??" when the doctor told me he was a boy...true story), to being so thankful for the man he is becoming,...

...remembering holding him tightly as a baby in my arms to feeling how tightly he is holding me now in his,

...seeing the similarities flash too quickly through my mind of the baby he was to the boy he is and the man he is becoming - in his features, in his mannerisms, in his laughter, and in his passion.

And just as tears begin to prick the sides of my closed eyelids, and my heart is feeling full, as I soak in this growing boy with all I have, he breathes in deeply, lets out a breath of relaxation and contentment, and his stature falls deeper and harder and heavier onto mine, and he says to me...

"What's for lunch?"

I sigh, pull back, look him straight in the face. I search his eyes to find out what he is thinking, for a clue of something...anything...and I see nothing but pure 15 year old boy trust and love and freedom.

"Grilled cheese. Would you like me to make you a grilled cheese for lunch?"

"Sure, Mom, if that fits the ticket."

It sure does, my boy. It sure does.

And I silently wish myself a Happy Mother's Day because I am truly happy to be a mother, on this day and all the others.

Invisible

I want to tell my kids that they are not invisible.

I want to tell them that they are seen and loved.  I want them to know that the other high schoolers sitting in their classes who are choosing to not see my sons are missing out. They are missing out on a friendship with a loyal, caring, compassionate and fun boy (or two, or three, or four).

I want them to know that my heart breaks every morning they head out the door for school. My mother's heart would do anything to protect them and provide everything they need.  But the fact is, I feel powerless to change it and them and those others who choose to not see the goodness and depth that exists within my boys. I just feel angry that it is still hard, that it is still not wanted, that it is not what it used to be.

I grieve all that was lost and I cry. I cry a deep cry that acknowledges, perhaps for the first time, the hole that exists within me because of what no longer is. I feel my heart crying, "Oh God, what have we done?"...knowing full well we did exactly what He asked us to do.

It was a transition of obedience.  But it was hard.  Honestly, it is hard.  Three months in, and I am tired and just wish it was all easier - the whole thing: life, work, school, friends, family, sports...

Moving has been the hardest thing we have ever done. It brings comparisons between what was and what is, and between who was and who is. It is a chance to grow and depend on each other and on God. But it is also a daily struggle of hoping each day is better than the one before.  Often it is two steps forward, and one step backward. I am very thankful for those who have helped us take the two steps forward each time, because there have been many! And I am also thankful for our church youth groups who have welcomed our boys with open arms.

Transitioning is a process and it requires courage and grace, strength and compassion, determination and perseverance. All are necessary in life; good things to learn; great things to become awesome at. My boys are becoming awesome at these things.  I see them change and try and dig deeper and learn to be more than they were, more than they could have been had we stayed put. And for that I am thankful, even if they don't see it that way.

But as I watch my son watch everyone around him I think, "Can you see him?  Can you just turn around and notice the boy standing alone behind you?"  I'm scared because I know that my boy is hurting; he is lonely but he is trying; he puts one foot in front of the other each morning and for that I am so proud of him.  He joins new groups and teams in an attempt to find a friend, someone who likes him for who he is, someone who laughs at his jokes and acknowledges all he is.

Someone who sees him.
Because he is not invisible.

He is loved and known. They are all loved and known.
I know that, and I pray that they know it too.