Just before noon last Thursday, my phone buzzed, alerting me of a text.
“I think I do want to move to Indiana. I’ve been thinking about it for a while, and there’s nothing horribly wrong…”
I hold my breathe.
My heart skips more than a beat.
Just hours before, my post about that very same boy went live at The High Calling. The last line?
“I still think I have plenty of time.”
How can time stand still and race in the very same moment?
I’m not sure, but it does, and it’s eery. Surreal.
The truth is, I’m actually the one who suggested it to him some weeks before Spring Break. Maybe more than a month before, and have been thinking about it even months before then.
Teenage boys need their biological fathers.
Peter is a great step-dad, but it’s not the same.
Initially, Morgan was resistant to the idea. He didn’t want to move away from friends, or from his sister. Life in Indiana would be a cavernous unknown. In recent weeks, however, the idea has taken root.
Thus the text.
Despite the fact that it was my suggestion to him, and I honestly believe it is in his best interest, that text rocked my world.
What can ever prepare you to release a child?
All I can think about is Abraham and Isaac, and while there is no lapping flame, it still feels very much like a sacrifice that requires trust. I look in the thicket and see no ram.
The Spirit reminds me, My heart safely trusts Him. I ask for more faith, greater ability to trust.
In the deepest part of me, I know that my Father loves my son far more than I do. I know that God will work all things together for his good and for God’s own glory. I claim every single verse I’ve ever underlined and highlighted in my Bible.
I cry tears in the middle of the night and nestle snug into the side of the man who reassures me. I cry more tears at the end of the Spring Band Concert as I think of the performances I’ll miss. I cry at random times throughout the day – at the kitchen sink, while doing laundry or when I’m driving to pick him up from school.
I push back the hard lump that rises in the middle of my throat.
I’ve kissed boo boos, wiped tears, and turned on lights in the middle of the night to remove shadows that look like monsters. I’ve prayed with him nearly every night we’ve shared the same roof. Asked God to bring him into his destiny, to protect the plans and purposes He has for Morgan.
I bought the Dangerous Book for Boys long ago, but I don’t know how to help him become the man that God desires for him to be.
Teenage boys need their fathers.
A few weeks ago on the way to church I noticed a tree beside the ball field. Something about it struck me so I snapped what I hoped would be a decent photo and forgot about it.
Until now.
I pull out my phone and open the camera roll. The tree is split right down the middle.
I realize teenage boys aren’t the only ones who need their fathers.
So are moms whose hearts are split open.
And families whose lives are ripped apart – whether by divorce or from tornadoes. Those who’ve heard pathology reports and those who’ve shoveled dirt onto graves, well before they were ready to do so.
And really, all of us are in need, aren’t we? Our hearts are ripped apart by circumstances or sin, or both.
For the first time in more than a week, I’m still long enough to listen. I hear words of hope, superimpose them on an image.
When the sky darkens and your heart splits open, run to the Father!
It sounds a lot like abiding, doesn’t it?
And linking up with Sandy for the first time in a while, because I so need to be Still. And with Shelly because I’m in need of Sabbath!
