On the Things You Miss

Suppose you have a little green-eyed son.

On the night he is born, you walk the streets holding hands with his soon-to-be daddy, through the warm night of an April where the contractions are so kind and easy they are merely breaks in the hushed conversation.

They foretell.

Soon his beauty and charm press your heart-walls until your chest aches. That laugh. Those dancy feet. The way he carries a fallen maple leaf in pudgy toddler hand, blond hair dazzled by the wind of a coming Michigan winter.

He learns to skate. To write. To love. To drive.

You try your best to be his mommy, to guard his ways and warn and trust.

Put on your boots. Finish your carrots. Turn off your light. Text when you get there.

You pray: Father, guide him. Father, save him. Father, protect him.

Please.

What is it about this boy that draws people in? He’s funny without trying, kind without guile, quick to lend or offer or grant or give.

You know his hidden insecurities, the way he hates to try something for the first time, how you must sometimes subtle him into something you know he will like, the faith inside himself too small without yours alongside.

Soon, he is an eaglet, soaring alone. His life is his, and as you let go piece by piece, you are rewarded with his visits home and sweet hello’s and silly texts and coffee in the kitchen in the dust-mote quiver of an early sun.

He was grumpy that last morning.

It was uncharacteristic of him; being asked to move a broken refrigerator out the all-too-narrow front door when you’re late for work would bring out the crabby in anyone, so you tease and thank and forgive and say good-bye for what will be the last time.

It’s impossible to remember your last words to him, looking back; it was an unremarkable morning at the beginning of an unremarkable day at the end of an otherwise unremarkable week.

Until.

And now.

Oh, what you miss.

He used blow through the front door trailed by a wake of friends, not ashamed to call you Momma or say I-love-you or drop a naughty word just to get a rise. You miss that.

Events trigger.

Settled sediment of the past, stirred up afresh.

Your first parent-teacher conferences in the teacher role, reminding you of his first ones, he proud and happy, you amazed at the scholar he is becoming.

Driving through college town along the route you used to take a few times a week to gather him up or drop him off, before he figured out how to outsmart the parking nazis and leave his car on campus.

Seeing his friends walking ahead of you at a recent football game, the one you all went to together to cheer his team and see the helmet stickers his former coaches had made in his honor – watching their futures stretching ahead of them and imagining him in their mix, shoulder-bumping and insta-thinging. They see your wet eyes and draw close.

FullSizeRender.jpg

img_0110

The memory of driving home from junior boarding school that first time, he abuzz with Athens and aqueducts and his roommate Allen. You can’t keep up; he has taken ownership of his education and you cannot be more pleased.

14590377_10210989948730564_8758439210398749432_n

Photos, the memories of their snap, when he would feign shock or shy, arm wrapped around a brother’s neck or a sister’s shoulder, the glue that pulled us in as the turbid waters rose.

img_1172

IMG_0998.JPG

img_0526

Smells. His favorite muffins. Old Spice, like your own dad when you were small. Hockey gear fresh with sweat. The inside of his car.

You try not to remember that horrid day when you must dig through bloody glass to find his phone, any clue, the first sight of the impossible angles of fender and broken wheel worth a lifetime of horrors.

You don’t miss that.

Things remind you of what to miss. You pull out the running shirt he gave you a few Christmases back, bought with own-job money and son-love, a size small, which makes you want to laugh and cry, your child’s perception versus the reality of you.

You miss the obvious things, of course. Sound of voice and touch of hand. But the layers of miss…the not-yet and never-will-be. The never-bride and never-babies, the never-career and never-failures that you might have celebrated or counseled or encouraged with him.

You discover it is possible to miss something that never was.

He never saw your new tiny house, your new black car, or you in your perfect new office at your perfect new job. These things are just benchmarks on your way back to him.

IMG_0039.JPG

Good is relative now.

You miss that feeling you used to have waking up, knowing he is, no matter where, no matter how many miles apart you might have been. The simple possibility of him.

You ponder heaven, the where of it, what matter of distance separates him from you. You consider that perhaps it is measured in sighs and tears rather than feet or miles, at least from your end. That it is real is what anchors your soul, remembering all that Jesus promised and clasping what-will-one-day-be tight when you’re not sure you can endure.

IMG_0065.jpg

You miss and miss and miss and miss until now it’s your eyes that ache and your arms and your gut and your soul.

You remember that you are “surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses”  (Hebrews 12:1). 

Your green-eyed boy is now one of these, exhorting you to “run with perseverance the race marked out” for you.

There is something about these backward roles, he-cheering-you now instead of you-cheering-him, that stops your heart.

Run, Momma. 

Don’t miss me too much.

Run, run, run because soon – and I mean Jesus-soon, Aslan “all-time-is-soon-to-me”- soon, you will be with me in the unshakeable kingdom.

There is nothing to miss here.

IMG_1309.JPG

What else do we need but our great, great King? 

Advertisements

Author: walkwithme413

Jesus-lover. Hiker. Mother. Friend.

10 thoughts on “On the Things You Miss”

  1. Oh my dear friend. This is so beautifully written and so deeply touching. I can tell that it is good for you to write, …. and it is a gift. My heart aches, and my eyes weep as I read this. Thank you for sharing such depths of your heart and your longing, and your missing. Love you, Cheryl.

    Like

  2. Thank you Cheryl~ for sharing ~ Breaks my heart xoxo, but gives me strength at the same time~ You are “A Special Lady” !!

    Like

  3. Lovely, heart-wrenching- sweet. I feel your raw pain! you write beautifully and through it, I hope you gain strength each day. Bless you for sharing- peace and thanks!

    Like

  4. Beautiful, Cheryl. Though I am swollen eyed, I am thankful for the beautiful read–your words are so moving. I do chuckle a bit at the memory of YOU asking ME to read and edit your writing. You have a raw, natural talent. Miss you, friend.

    Like

  5. Oh, Cheryl, you have a tender way with words. I miss you and your encouragement. Thanks for sharing yourself, your pain, but also your hope with us – with me. I feel as tho you are speaking directly to me. God grant you his peace.

    Like

  6. Cheryl, you will remember me only as a name in the periphery of your friendship with the Angerhofers, who so deeply love you and yours, but I want you to know that I have held all of you in my heart and in my prayers for many years. Your unspeakable loss ramped up my petitions on your behalf, and finding your thoughts about that loss online has sent me back to my Lord, pleading for His mercy toward you and for your continued strength to finish the race. You and your grown-up babies are SOOO beautiful! I pray Heaven’s richest blessings on each of you. May your joy be in Him and each other.

    Like

    1. Pam, Thank you so much for your kind words. It is truly only through HIS strength that any of us can run our race…and, you are right, there is such inexplicable joy in Him … thank you for your prayers…very humbled …

      Like

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s