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.

Detours, Road Blocks & How Late-Night Laundry Can Make You Cry

Sometimes life's highway takes you right into a road block, forcing a detour. It feels typical that it's often when you have just busted through the traffic, hit the open road, and set the cruise. 

Last week, I showed up at the same-day surgery wing at the local hospital for an eighteen-year-overdue hernia repair. The surgery ahead of me went about four hours long, and I kept thinking, "There's no way Sam is going to make it to the soccer games tonight." In my naivety, I did not consider what the recovery from an abdominal surgery would be like, and assumed that I would bounce back like I'm twenty, and he'd be able to drop me at the house and carry on with the soccer life. As it turns out, I groggily woke up in recovery around 3pm took some very painful, ginger steps to the restroom, and was discharged around 4:30pm. With a detour via the pharmacy for the highly anticipated overnight dose of pain medication, Sam and I decided that with the littles in the care of their Grammie, I could either lie down in the car on the way to the soccer game or lie down at home and not get to see any of it. (Hardcore! Just kidding, probably more like FOMO.) He hesitantly agreed to let me tag along, and we were off to Macon in time to catch a few minutes of the first half and the rest of the game, only the second one of the season.

(I felt like garbage. If anyone ever tries to tell you the recovery from hernia surgery is nothing, they might be lying. Or maybe I'm a weenie. If it's the second one, don't tell me.)

Sam broke some parking rules and pulled me right up the curb overlooking the field, and I got to watch my girls work their magic. There really is not a whole lot this side of heaven that brings me more joy than to watch them doing what they love. Everyone's favorite athlete is their own child, and it's an even more special thing to see them playing together. My two varsity girls play such a different game from each other, but they both play in a way that is perfect for them. Abby is strong and stolid, unbothered by flagrant fouls and gnatty forwards. She distributes the ball, and commands the field with her presence and her voice. She's a great leader, and I love watching her play. (Duh.) Sarah, on the other hand, is the gnatty forward. She is wiry and fast and literally everywhere. Sometimes she'll be playing a position up top and then, "Whoa, Sarah just came out of nowhere and blocked that shot in the box! What's she doing back there?" She's the definition of tenacity, almost reckless, but not. She is unbelievably disciplined both on and off the field, and you can see how seriously she takes every moment and every opportunity on the pitch as a time to perform with excellence, never halfway. 

As I watched the game from my perch, I saw Sarah break away with the ball down field. In my haze, I couldn't describe the exact circumstances (though I have since rewatched the film), but she planted, her knee buckled, and she went down. A non-contact injury. A soccer player's worst nightmare. Her coach subbed her off the field, and I watched with a deep sense of dread, as that knee buckled with each independent step she took toward the bench. I watched as she attempted to move along the sideline, to shake it off, each time that knee refusing to hold up her not-at-all-heavy frame. I watched her hold her pinny in her hand and plop down on the bench. And I think we all knew. 

As soon as the game finished, Sam helped her to the car. She wasn't in any pain. She simply couldn't bear the weight. The next morning, as soon as they opened, Sam took her to walk-in ortho urgent care where they fitted her with a brace and scheduled an MRI.

Long story short, on Monday, we learned she has a torn ACL. It will be surgically repaired early in March. She is justifiably devastated, especially with a looming average of nine months recovery before returning to the pitch. 

This is not the detour we expected. However, this is the road block that God has appointed. It's easy for me, a forty-something-year-old woman to recognize this. I'm not happy about it, but I do have the luxury of a few years under my belt to see and believe that God always works these things for our good and His Glory. This is an opportunity to more deeply understand her identity in Christ, not her identity in soccer. 

Nevertheless the wound is fresh, and the grief is real. She's been showered with kindness by friends, and we are so grateful for the sweet well-wishes and prayers. She's already planning ways to pass her time without juggling and shooting in the backyard. She's the toughest person I know, but she is still a teenager who got dealt really bad news. And it isn't just affecting her. It hits when Abby says, "Sarah and I will never play a game together again." When Sarah stays up to fold her laundry and the dozen pair of soccer socks get left behind on the living room floor because she won't be needing those for a while. When she's in her bed trying to sleep and the gravity of the recovery time looms in the darkness - nine months is an eternity to a teenager (not gonna lie, it sounds pretty long to me too). When I spent some time editing photos from the first game today, and I was simultaneously so grateful to have them and heartbroken to see them. 

This probably seems like melodrama. Maybe it is. I don't think so. But maybe. 

All of this to say, please be praying for my girl. We love her so. She will come out just fine. I know that with my whole heart, but man I wish it was my crunchy old knee instead. 

In the meantime, we remind ourselves this is a wonderful opportunity for growth off the pitch and in the soul. We are praying that none of us will waste this trial. Remember this when you're going through the pits.

Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance.  Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything. James 1:2-4