Dear Wild One

Dear wild one…I yelled at you today.  My voice was too harsh.  Too loud.  Too quick to throw words at you.  

Dear wild one… I saw your heart melt under the lava of my lips when I should have ceased my reprimands. 

Dear wild one…its true-you weren’t listening.  But I was more concerned with outward show and convenience than what was going on with you.

Dear wild one…I saw your brother silence underneath my weighty words.  Did he beat himself up knowing he added to the fighting?  Or did he just shut down too?

Dear wild one...I see them.  I see those tears cornering at your eyes.  I see the way you brush them softly, pretending you’re ok.  I see a stray one that you missed trickle down your freckled cheek.  I love those freckles, wild one, even though you tell me they are something that you hate…I love the way they paint your face-because it’s a way in which God fashioned you unique.

Dear wild one...As we pull into the driveway I am filled with wondering. Maybe if I had spoken with understanding, holding you as dear...maybe then your eyes wouldn’t hold such hurt and fear. Help me Lord to quench this flaming sorrow ignited by my tongue. Because I know in this moment, just like others, I have done this mothering thing so wrong.

Dear wild one…I tell myself ahead of time, just like I preach to you.  Sorries take full responsibility. Even the slightest “but” means it isn’t true. I meet you at the van door and take you by the hand.  I tell you that I’m sorry for my yelling and it’s not ok for me to act like that. “You are just a child,” I say, “but I am accountable as an adult in a special way.”  My voice cracks as I whisper, “I can only imagine the impact my voice had upon all your littleness.”  Your chin begins to quiver as you lift your eyes to mine.  I have brought up the sorrow you strove hard to stuff down. And now here it stands gaping, exposed to all the light… looking for comfort to help it feel all right.

You tell me you are sorry for talking back to me.  I hug you tightly, uttering forgiveness, yet I know in this circumstance, my actions provoked sin from you.  So, I ask, even though I know it already to be true- “Does mom yell a lot?” Your hazel eyes are most like mine, but wide just like your dads.  They pool with large teardrops as you break down and say, “You are harsh sometimes.” I can tell you didn’t want to say it, because you don’t want my heart to ache.  But I have asked, and we emphasize the importance of living in the truth.  Yet in warmth you are quick to add the balm of Gilead.   “But you are a good mom.   And I love you.”  I take it in slowly, knowing God has used your small speech as the reproof I need to teach me something deep. I hold you gentle and let the words escape, “thank you…thank you for telling me.”    Then I lament for all the lost moments I let anger get ahold of me.

I texted your dad we would be home in ten minutes and that ten has turned into twenty-five. But somehow sitting here weeping seems like an important thing. “We two aren’t that different you know.” You look up intently, waiting for me to explain. “We both are strong willed people who like to get our way.  It’s in all of us.  That’s why Jesus came to save.  “But others don't sin as often.   I feel like they are better than me.”  Your honesty is crushing. Why would you think that?” I ask.  “How are others different from you?”  Burdened by the weight on your back, you blurt out, “Others are sometimes good and I'm sometimes not."   I tell you plainly, “Sometimes I feel that way with your dad.  I’m the parent that seems to yell.   The one who often is discontent.  I worry and I struggle so much more than him.”   “That’s not true, Mom.  You aren’t less than him.”  It’s in that moment that the weeping that endured for but a moment is overtaken by newfound joy. “I know sweet girl,” I smile. “That’s why it’s just a feeling.  Feelings are real, but that doesn’t always mean they are true.  Although we all are different, sin is nothing new. So don’t think for a second that others are any better than you.”  

 We hug longer before your dad finds us sitting outside. The brats are grilled. Supper is ready and he has a meeting soon.  But when he sees us talking, he just walks away.  He’s good that way, your dad…always knowing if the heart needs holding or if it just needs some space to be sad.

“You know,” I tell you strongly, so you know I am sincere. “ I love your spunky heart that loves life richly.  I wouldn’t trade it for a thing.   And I want you to remember- we need to point out the hard things. How miserable we would be if we didn’t call out each other’s sin.  We would grow to hate the Lord because we wouldn’t have time for Him.  “We wouldn’t be blessed,” you say.  You are young, but your wisdom, child…I see it shining through.  

“Can you do me a favor?” I ask. Your lisp slips out as you nod your head to agree. “Tell mommy when she’s being harsh if you are able...because tender is what your heart needs…And I will tell you where you need to be more self aware.  Together we can both work on these things. But Mom?  She’s the big one.  And all this starts with me.” 

Dear wild one...There are so many times I cast my jewels to the side, thinking they will be there as tomorrow unfolds.  I thought raising precious pearls would be simple,  but the truth is motherhood is exposing .  The truth is that it’s humbling to see the same faults that lie in you are the same ones that lie in me. The pruning cuts as it points out there are times I’m the one who hurts my little lambs. The temptation comes to act like you aren’t bleating, because then it means I’m not failing at this mothering thing. But pretending is not loving.  And love is never the easy way.  I know because love marks the blood-stained nails that hung our Savior to a tree. So maybe motherhood isn’t supposed to be easy, but rather, filled with humbling. Maybe it isn’t so much about not failing as it is about failing and falling on the cross. Maybe it’s not so much about how perfect I raise you, as it is about using the imperfections as an opportunity to serve a perfect King. And perhaps the best thing I can do with my mothering is use it as an opportunity to leave my footprints for my children to step in as we walk the road to Calvary. A road that can be bumpy with selfishness and suffering. But a road that is saving, as it leads us to all things heavenly.

Dear wild one...I pray for you. Stay wild my daughter. Because your wild is what makes you wonderful to me.