Souvenirs

I ran a 10K trail race at Hobby Park just down the road from us over the weekend, and it was the first morning in months that felt cool and crisp. The leaves were rustling, some were shedding, others morphing to gold. As a deep breath of newborn autumn air filled my lungs, a wave of nostalgia filled my mind as memories of high school cross-country meets and college soccer games freshened my tired muscles and weary soul. The night before, Blake was sick. David and I arose with each cry to clean, comfort and calm. Blake being just shy of 5 years old took the illness in stride. “I hate this night,” he moaned. “But I know everyone gets sick sometimes. It’s a part of life,” he lamented bravely yet bitterly between episodes of vomit.  His tearful eyes interrogated, “Right, mom?” I pulled him into my lap and held him closely. “That’s right, baby. You will get through this. You are not alone. We are in this together.” I promised, eyes locked with his.

The long days that compose the short years of parenting young children can be staggeringly exhausting. It’s like being on 24 hour call, 365 days of the year, most of which you get called in and work full time with no pay. It takes all of you – soul, mind, heart and strength. You question daily if God made a mistake entrusting you with such an impossible responsibility. I never dreamed of being a mom as a young child or teen. Motherhood was gifted to me unexpectedly as a young adult while I was sitting in a pile of ashes. Much of my life was put to the flames in my early 20s, and I wasn’t sure what to make of what was left. My family of origin, once my firm foundation and security, was in shambles. My plans for career as ministry were derailed by a tempest of prolonged physical and mental illness, to which I finally succumbed. I was drowning, barely making it up for air, and I was handed a baby. No one could have been more unprepared.

My first born Blake and I have worked over 4 years on loving one another. I’ve truly grown to know and enjoy this wide-eyed red-headed wonder. He did not ask to be born into the most unstable season of my life. He was the child who transitioned me from maidenhood to motherhood, and no doubt he suffered through such education. No one is naturally equipped with enough health and selflessness to meet the demands of parenthood. I have friends who fear having children because of this reality. Still, on my hardest days of caring for my littles, I do recognize by God’s grace that someone did in fact mother and father me as well, and it was not easy for them either. As a mom of two boys now, I find myself reflecting more often on my home of origin for better and for worse. Over time, my lenses of judgment and critique have been replaced by a perspective filtered by grace and understanding as my demons threaten the abundant life my God died and rose again for me to have and give to others. I have scars from the wounds of a mother who had too many hurts herself to truly be honest with her condition and submit to the Surgeon's knife. Even so, she gave me paradise compared to the life she knew.  

My dad came from a middle-class family where he was loved and cared for, however, in the end he witnessed his father’s exodus to marry another woman. My mother was the last of eight, the daughter of a child-like mother and an absent father who was mostly away for military service. They met on a blind date and my dad was smitten. She was planning to move to FL, to leave her AL traumas behind, but he asked her to stay, to be his. Some say love is blind. I’d say my father knew exactly what sort of cherry bomb he was choosing. He was the logical one, she brought spontaneity. He was shy and reserved, and she offered an alluring form of chaos that he could not resist. Out of logic and spontaneity, I was birthed. They were married 25 years, and then my mother walked away. The reasons are complicated, deep, multi-faceted, and really, it's their story to tell. Still to the day, I rarely come upon a marriage more enviable than theirs was in its prime.

Their divorce took motion only months after David and I exchanged our vows. That was 8 years ago now, and I still mourn the loss. David and I went to see Switchfoot in Greenboro this past week, and after a long day at work where I seriously thought I'd quit my job, my soul drank deeply from hearing their songs live. They have been the soundtrack of some of the darkest, most trying seasons of my life. One song called Souvenirs speaks to the finite nature of all things, even the best of things.

“And I close my eyes, and I go back in time. I see you smiling, you were so alive.”

The whole song really reminds me of my parents' relationship. When Jon sang this song, I closed my eyes and I searched through my memories to find my souvenirs of their happiest days…back to when I would leave my cartoons and search the house for my parents, and find them laughing together in the shower drinking from the romance that fueled their team-approach to life. I can hear Chicago playing in the kitchen while they cooked together and talked about their day. I remember all my sport teams they co-coached and how they gave me the freedom to make my own choices, to fail, to adventure and explore, and to be me unapologetically.

Tears form, as Jon's lyrics continue, “We were so young, we had no fear. We were so young, we had no idea that life was just happening. Life was just happening.”

It still surprises me every time how much their severance has affected my soul. Perhaps it's because their love is the reason I am alive, so when they stopped dancing, a part of me died. Or maybe it's because their divorce echoes the theme of the larger anthem playing all around me – “That nothing lasts forever.”

As I ran the trail, I prayed for Blake, for him to be well soon. And I prayed for myself, to not lose heart, to chose to be grateful for the good and to trust that the bad in fact makes us relevant to each other. Another Switchfoot favorite, "The wound is where the light shines through."

My wounds, my scars, my vices, my demons...all of this, and yet, I am the mother of two littles, and there is no one else who can be that for them.

These present days of “Mommy, look!”
These days of scrapes that actually mend with a kiss,
And splashing in puddles is the highest level of bliss…
These days of explaining the “whys” a thousand times.
And constantly spending yourself to meet their needs.
These days feel so long, 
But they are in actuality very short.
One day, the real world will crash down,
And I know I will miss the kisses, and the puddles.
We are making memories that will one day be only souvenirs.

I close my eyes and go back in time. I can see you smiling, you're so alive. I close my eyes and go back in time. You were wide-eyed, you were wide-eyed. We were so young, we had no fear. We were so young, we had just begun. A song we knew, but we never sang. It burned like fire inside our lungs. And life was just happening ,and nothing lasts, nothing lasts forever. I wouldn't trade it for anything. My souvenirs.                                                                                   
                                                                                                                -Jon Foreman "My Souvenirs”