Let Her Cry

I cried while mowing the grass today. I'd be lying if I said this was an unusual occurrence. Mowing the lawn has always been a sort of sacred time for me alone with my thoughts, a time to pray and hash out imaginary scenarios, that is providing the lawnmower starts as it should and I'm not out of gas or battery or have a flat tire or any other thing that can go wrong with lawn equipment. If that happens, I cry then also. 

Today, I'm not even sure why I cried. Before we all go blaming it on perimenopause (the token scapegoat of the internet for 40+ year old women, maybe even warranted to an extent), I would also like to say that all of my life I have, from time to time and not infrequently, cried without the ability to explicitly explain why. Again, not unusual for me. (No need to worry. I'm perfectly well-adjusted I'm sure.)

When I started this silly blogging hobby near decades ago, I needed a creative outlet. Perhaps I was looking for commiseration or encouragement in the earliest throes of marriage and motherhood and adult life in general. I couldn't really even say (shocking, I know). It's been a lot of fun looking back and seeing how young and dumb and awful I was. Maturity happens slower for some of us. I'm not there yet, but maybe some day. 

I am in a unique season in life where I am simultaneously rearing young children and also encouraging and guiding my young adult children at the same time. Sam and I, in a quick exchange last night, confirmed each other's opinion that it is not any easier to do the latter. The younger children are simpler. The stakes are lower. You can hold them and rub between their eyes when they're tired and crying, and they go to sleep. You can feed them a snack when their blood sugar is low and their emotions are running high, and suddenly they're easier to reason with. The older ones have life-changing decisions to make and move to big, scary cities and stay up late and ask really hard questions that require saying hard things in return. Sometimes you're not sure your advice is even all that good. (That's when hopefully Sam takes a stab at it because I trust his wisdom over mine any day.) It's a whole new challenge you have to figure out in learning how to be a parent. I guess you never really fully know how to be one. Like, ever. 

The other day, I was standing in the unbelievably long line at TJ Maxx. (Honestly, why? Why is it always that long? In the middle of a weekday morning?) When I reached the register, the cashier asked my girls their ages. I had Leah (13) and Sarah (16) with me. She immediately turned to me and said, "What's that like, Mom?" I'm sure I stared at her quizzically. I'm not dumb, but rather than just answer the question people ask me, I like to run through several additional questions before I simply answer. What does she mean? Why is she asking? Does she know they are right here? After I rolled all of those thoughts around in my brain, I finally responded, "What? Them being teenagers? They're awesome." Now it was her turn to look at me with a furrowed brow. Maybe she thought I was lying. She told me she has a nine year old and things weren't going so well. I told her that's a tough age, but if you put the work in, the teen years are nothing. If you go through the pains of doing the hard work when they're little, they often turn out great. It's not a perfect formula, but it's a solid way to set up success. (They still have to make hard decisions and ask tough questions, but they aren't miserable to be around while they're doing those things.)  She thanked me for that and said it was encouraging. I should mention in my cynicism, I'm not entirely sure she was willing to put in the hard work, but at least she knows it's possible to love your teenagers and to love being around them, and I know I'm not the only one who feels this way. 

What I didn't say there at the checkout line is that all those younger years of picking battles and molding behaviors and calling sin by its name and pointing them to Jesus and becoming sanctified yourself all the while, yield unquantifiable results that are likely to have you inexplicably crying while you mow your front lawn. My kids are not perfect, but I've watched them (as I attempt so desperately not to meddle) make some incredibly wise choices that I am absolutely certain I would not have been mature enough to make at their ages, and, when they don't, take the lessons to heart. 

I've seen them turn the other cheek. I've seen them tear down their own idols. I've watched them make tough decisions and prioritize their walk with Jesus. They have handled situations with maturity and without batting an eyelash, to the point that it convicts me. They don't stand for drama. They tell the truth. They work so hard. My goodness the work ethic. Some of them are just like me and when you see your flaws mirrored in your offspring, they're so much more plain. (Ope.) That's sanctifying. How do you teach someone to correct a flaw when you haven't figured it out yourself? Some of them exude confidence and are braver than I could ever dream to be. I wish I could steal a little of that. They confide in you, sharing joys and the occasional concerns. They know how to push your buttons and then make you laugh. They are really good at making me laugh. 

Having littles is so special. But, oh man, having bigs is something entirely different. It's not easier, but it is so, so worth it. So when you see the mom pushing the mower in the yard with tears streaming down her face. It might be because she's having a hormonal breakdown, but it's also possible she's just proud of her kids for being so much better than she is - by the grace of God, some blood and sweat, and, you guessed it, quite a few inexplicable tears.