3.16.23 7 Letters I Can’t Send: Dear Future Her

“My mother is the reason that I love you … She is the reason I know what love is.” 
― L. Franqui

Dear Future Her,

You know who you are, but I don’t yet … and that is both a wonderful and curious thing to me. Sometimes I wonder if he has already met you, or seen you, or dreamed you up in his mind. I like to think about things like that. I like to imagine the intersection of where his heart finds its way to you, because it comforts me to imagine that someday, he will be completely captivated by someone who just might deserve him.

I’m sure that when I know you, I will love you–because you will love him. How could I not trust your judgement? But here’s the thing I can’t deny; I’m a little bit afraid of you.

My son is–well–he is one of the most remarkable humans I have ever known. And I guess, before I know you, before he falls for you, there are a few things I’d like you to know. The most important is this: he cares about everything and everyone. Genuinely. He carries conversation. He opens doors. He holds eye contact. He shows emotion, and affection, and strength of character by admitting his weaknesses. He challenges himself. He prays. He stays. And his sister is his best friend.

I know that whoever you are, you will be strong. It will not intimidate him; he will champion this about you. I know you will be brave; he will support your choices. I know you will be intelligent, and he will be proud of your every accomplishment–whether attempted or achieved. Here’s the thing: I just ask you to do the same.

Love him back.

Honestly.

Imperfectly.

Intentionally.

And remember that before you ever had the honor of holding his heart, he had long ago stolen mine.

3.13.23 7 Letters I Can’t Send: Dear Perfectionism

“But I am learning that perfection isn’t what matters. In fact, it’s the very thing that can destroy you if you let it.” 
― Emily Giffin, Something Borrowed

Dear Perfectionism,

I am going to keep this letter short, because I do not believe you warrant any of my attention, though you certainly command it often enough. That being said, you have been making yourself known more and more as of late. And so, I would like to make one thing irrevocably clear–you can’t have her.

Throughout my life, you have haunted me like a vampiric shadow–leeching the light and the joy out of even the most accomplished moments. You have dwindled in the echoes of thoughts stuck-on-repeat and it has taken me decades to push you into background noise. Then, after all that work, you have the audacity to come back again, full-force, at her.

How dare you.

To haunt me was painful, but to make her precious mind your sordid sanctuary is unforgivable. She is everything good and beautiful in this world. She is every best-intention, every kind word, every hope for a better tomorrow, and I will not stand by and watch you beguile her with poisonous promises that bind her to an ideal that doesn’t exist.

Hear me clearly, Perfectionism, because I will only say this once. She will not fall to you … because she is strong. She has the legions of Heaven behind her, and what’s more–she sure as hell won’t be fighting you alone.

5.4.21 Beyond Bearing It

Sometimes, when I can’t fall asleep, I sift through pictures in my mind of before. I lie in bed, heart pounding, throat throbbing, repressed tears threatening to absolutely overwhelm me if I let them – because of this gift, and how quickly it’s passing me by.

Of him.

Of her.

Of becoming a mother and remembering every detail that my too-fast life with them will let me recall. Memories come back to me in fragmented bits … little pieces of stained glass that join together in an endless collage of colors and lenses I miss looking through.

I am so blessed.

But love – love this big … quite simply, it hurts.

It hurts because even when you try to savor every second, they still pass. It hurts because the world isn’t perfect and they are … so you need it to be, but can’t change it. It hurts because even when they’re too big to crawl up onto your lap, a part of them wants to, so you hold on instead for a too long hug – and it never feels like enough.

When she was nine months old, I was about to put her in bed, and she placed her tiny hands on either side of my face. She held me there, and stared at me so intently … her bright eyes telling me all the things she couldn’t say, but found a way to share nonetheless.

When he was off to his first day of Kindergarten – unafraid and excited for whatever came next, I asked him for one more hug. “For me buddy, not for you,” I’d said. He smiled big and hugged me tight. “It’s okay mommy,” he whispered in my ear, “I’ll miss you too.” Taking care of my heart at five, and checking in with me ever since.

She is my starlight. He is my keeper.

And though I am the farthest thing from what they deserve, I am on-my-knees grateful that God gave them to me … even for a time as fleeting as this. Because although I know I love imperfectly, I also know I love them fully – to the very edge of myself, almost beyond bearing it.

2.16.21 Love You, For Me

Love You, For Me

Beautiful

I need you to do something for me

and I know it isn’t easy, but I’m asking just the same.

If I could do it myself,

I would.

If I could ask someone else … it would never be enough.

And so I come to you – 

for you.

I need you to love you, for me.

I need you to recognize the impossibly, impractically, imperfectly-perfect person you are …

not just to me,

but to anyone who knows you truly – to anyone who has seen the magic you alone possess. 

I need you to imagine with me, that you are already there … 

that you have nothing to prove, and no one left to impress, 

except yourself. 

There is no one on earth who has, or ever could:

do what you do

think what you think

feel what you feel

imprint hope or impart wisdom the way that you can.

I need you to believe me.

I need you to hold on, for me.

I need you to recognize that reflection in the mirror for the exquisite treasure she is.

Do not dispel her value, 

diminish her worth

or doubt her purpose. 

Because I love her, 

but I need you to love her,

for me. 

8.18.20 Eleven is For …

Eleven is made for wishes

for candied pinky-promises and bubble gum kisses

for glitter dusted falling stars and conversations with the moon

Eleven is made for flowered tea cups with sugar on tiny, silver spoons

for dreaming under Willow trees and listening to the wind

for finding shapes in silver-lined periwinkle clouds

Eleven is for giggling with friends at stories you’ve woven together

for blowing iridescent bubbles parading up to the sky

for strawberry frosted memories that taste sweeter every year

Eleven is for wildflower bouquets and whispered secrets

for campfire glowing toasted marshmallow stories

for crystal-eyed curiosity, and believing that magic still exists

Eleven is made for wishes precious

Eleven is made for you

7.23.19 I Wish Him …

 

There are some wishes-come-true that are too powerful not to have come straight from heaven. He is, and has been, my most precious wish. I remember, twelve years ago today, meeting a tiny blue-eyed wonder who stole my heart with a single sigh. My heart, heavy with the fears that accompany infertility, suddenly found its way back to beating … and the breath I’d been holding in hope became a thousand colorful balloons finding their way to the sky.

I know he’s nearly a teenager now … I know we are supposed to butt heads and grapple with misunderstandings. I know that I’m not supposed to “get” him, and he’s not likely to care about what his mom thinks – but that’s just so not us. This boy … this wonder … is truly one of the best friends in my whole life. He’s intelligent, considerate, and kind. He’s protective and intentional in conversation. When I’m happy, chances are he’s the source of my laughter, and when I’m sad he won’t let me off without acknowledging whether or not I’m okay. We love pirates and pretend, random facts and Neverland. I love the way he loves his sister. I love the way he looks up to his dad.

I love him. Simply – and infinitely complex.

On this … his twelfth birthday, I thought I’d make a few wishes for him … one for each candle he blew out today.

1. I wish him effervescent joy like he brings to others.
2. I wish him confidence in times of chaos and calm.
3. I wish him the freedom to always escape to his imagination.
4. I wish him a lifetime of Sandman-sweet dreams.
5. I wish him truest friendship in and of every age.
6. I wish him the love that has no barriers or boundaries.
7. I wish him fulfillment in each of his pursued endeavors.
8. I wish him a thousand unexpected adventures.
9. I wish him tenacity when life does what it does, and tries him.
10. I wish him experience that leads to both humility and wisdom.
11. I wish him accomplishment that bears pride in helping others.
12. And most of all, I wish him faith borne of heaven’s wings.

 

2.6.19 Morning

This morning my son woke up my daughter who had come into my bed sometime before and fallen back asleep, “Wake up, I need you to play a game.” 

“What game?” 

“It doesn’t matter, as long as you play with me. Leave mom sleep, but I want to play with you.” 

“Well then, you’ll have to carry me,” she said groggily. 

“Ugh,” he grumbled.

“Carry me or I can’t go,” she insisted.

“Fine, get on my back,” he replied dutifully turning around. 

“Nope, this way,” she said, curling her legs up for him to scoop her. “But don’t drop me!” 

“I’m not gonna drop you,” he said, shifting to get a better hold. “If anything, I’ll go down too.” 

After putting her down she ran back to me, “I just needed a hug.” I gave her a tight snuggle. And waiting behind her, was him. “I just need a hug too.” I held on for as tightly as he’d let me. 

Trepidatious Hearts 9.30.18

“Build me a son, O Lord, who will be strong enough to know when he is weak, and brave enough to face himself when he is afraid, one who will be proud and unbending in honest defeat, and humble and gentle in victory.” – Douglas MacArthur

I am a little anxious writing tonight because I so desperately want to get this right. For the past few weeks I have been confronted with a tangle of thoughts and quotes and words and perspectives that have all built to a feeling to speak … I’m still not sure I know exactly what to say, but I can’t ignore the itch to try, and I pray something will come that is worthy of sharing, worthy of feeling and passing on.

I have been loving a song lately called “Charlie Boy,” by The Lumineers. It is about a young man feeling compelled by the speech of J.F.K. to enter into the war, and to fight for something bigger than himself – freedom. And as such, it is about a mother who is forced to accept his decision to fight, and ultimately, to die. The lyrics sing to her, “… don’t hang your head, love should make you feel good. In uniform you raised a man, who volunteered to stand.” Based on of a true story, I wonder how many brave young men and women have heeded a call I consistently choose to ignore. I crave safety, not the price of it. I yearn to be protected, not defend myself. Having children has only deepened this yearning for sanctuary, I think because I want to offer my son and daughter a promise that’s not mine to give – that they’re always going to be okay.

When my son was five and in kindergarten the Sandy Hook shooting happened. As a teacher, I always knew the threat was real, but when I had a son in a school, and I wasn’t with him – something shifted in me that has perpetually remained unaltered. I’ll never forget the months of shaking hands when I hugged him goodbye and sent him off to class … the way I looked back at the locked door thinking it wasn’t safe enough … the way I questioned the administration about the how they planned to increase the security measures of a small private school. Nothing seemed right for a long time, and every afternoon, when I picked him up, I realized that I’d release a breath I hadn’t known I’d been holding. It’s the same feeling I now have when I read accounts of families sold into slavery, of the Holocaust, of human trafficking  … to me they are all tales of mothers being taken from their children. And I can’t read stories as impartial accounts of history anymore, because all I hear is the injustice of a mother’s broken heart, and the empathy in me rises so that I can hardly breathe.

There is something about my son, my daughter, that have made objectivity impossible. I can no longer look at a situation apart from them, because they are my own precious version of gravity, holding my identity in this time and space in history. And I wish – I wish with every fiber of my being, that the world could understand this love … because if it could, I really believe things would be better. I’m reading an amazing book called Circus Mirandus, and in it, there is a section where a magician offers a little boy an illusion to see anything he wishes to see, as long as he understands it cannot be real. The boy wishes to see his father home from war, and in the illusion, the boy’s mother says something to him that absolutely wrecks me … and I found myself wishing, beyond all wishes, that it wasn’t an illusion, that it wasn’t a beautiful part of a beautiful story, because it is so very acutely the way I believe things should be.

“The war ended all at once and very calmly. It was as if, between one moment and the next, all the mothers of all the soldiers in the world had checked their clocks and realized that their children had been out playing for too long … The soldiers shook hands with one another and wished one another well. Then they raced back to their mothers or to their wives and sons.” – Cassie Beasley

And can’t you just see it? Can’t you see all the misunderstandings, the judgements, the hatred erased as if it were one big confusing game that has just gone on too long? Can’t you picture soldiers, gang members, politicians, and rivals shaking their heads in sudden confusion, bewildered at the mistakes they didn’t ever intend to go that far? If only everyone heard their mothers’ voices calling them back to themselves. If only everyone heard their father calling them home.

What a world we could promise our children.

What peace our trepidatious hearts could feel.

 

 

 

8.24.18 Accomplishment

“Whosoever does not believe in the existence of a sixth sense has clearly not regarded their own mother. How it is they know all they know about you, even those secrets you locked away so tightly in the most hidden compartments of your heart, remains one of the great mysteries of the world. And they don’t just know—they know instantly.”
Narissa Doumani

Sometimes I think I need my mom even more now that I’m an adult. When I was a child, I needed her to reassure me that I was loved, safe, and that nothing would happen that I couldn’t handle. As I’ve grown, these needs have only increased, and I thank God that I’ve never had to go a day without knowing that she was only a phone call, text, or plane ride away.

I am always heartbroken over people who have complicated relationships with their mothers because I cannot even fathom her not being in my life in some small way on a day-to-day basis. I’m often greeted with morning texts, or mailbox notes … and even as we live far apart, we find ways to stretch across the miles, our souls kindred and ever-too-stubborn to accept something as insignificant as distance. Last week it was her birthday, and I asked her to send me pictures of everything she did and everywhere she went – so I could pretend.

Reflecting on what she means to me, I am struck at just how miraculous it was that she should be the one God gave me to. People always say, “I don’t know where I’d be without my mom,” but sometimes I think, I don’t know WHO I would have become without my mom. Insecure and constantly self-assessing, I am not always very kind to myself, but my mom sees a version of me that I am able to make real because she believes in her … in that rendering of me.

Well into motherhood now myself, I pray that I am capable of even a fraction of the foundation my mom set for me. Some people might say that these are impossible shoes to fill, but I say, living out of her legacy of love, being associated with her brand of grace – well, it’s all the accomplishment I really need.

I hope you are loved well.

Elle

7.25.18 Someone Like Him

“Sons are the anchors of a mother’s life.” – Sophocles

When he was eight, my son looked up at me and said, “Hey mom, when I go to college … you’ll come right?”

“Of course,” I replied. And can I just say that until the offer is formally rescinded, I plan to find an apartment with a four-year lease, and keep my word.

Eleven. That is what this almost-as-tall-as-me charmer just turned, and my heart hurts with pride and pain at the clock and calendar that refuse to slow for me, regardless of my pleas. Ironically, he asked for a pocket watch for his birthday, and every few minutes, when he checks the time, I feel my heart racing the second hand as the visceral reminder that our time is fleeting. Emerson once said that, “Men are what their mother’s made them.” Though he may be a few years off from being a man, I can’t agree with Emerson, because nothing I have done in the past eleven years could have made a boy this good … this pure-hearted, or kind.

Whether it is right or wrong, a reversal of roles or even always appropriate … I depend on this little guy – on his perspectives, his judgement, his prayers, and even his bravery. He is a shoulder worth leaning into because underneath those mischievous smiles, there is a core of integrity and honor that can only be heaven-lent. I’m not sure how fair it is for me to need him at times probably more than he needs me, but there it is. My truth.

Just the other day I ran into a friend with a son the same age. She said she just finished running four miles with another friend of ours with another son the same age. After our pleasantries, I watched her sculpted runner legs leave and turned to my son saying, “Do you think it’s bad I’m not a runner mom? All your friends’ moms seem to run and I don’t. I rollerblade and walk and …”

“Mom,” he said, maturity washing over his little man features. “That’s silly. If anything they should feel bad because they’re all the same and you do things that are different.”

Cry.

There isn’t a day that goes by in this boy’s life where he doesn’t find a way to make me feel special … where he doesn’t make me believe that even if he could have hand-picked a mother, he would have chosen me. What in heaven’s reach did I do to deserve this? To deserve him?

We have our moments. But honestly … I can’t remember any of them significantly enough to even soften the halo around this post. I pray, with all my mother’s heart, that everyone have a someone like him.

Happy birthday baby boy,

I love you to Neverland,

Mommy (Elle)