She loves me
She loves me!
I sat at the classroom desk three rows back. The lights were off except for the one at the front of the room where my daughter stood. She looked around nervously as her teacher gave her the signal to begin.
“My speech today is about my mom,” she said as I waved to the class.
It is strange to see the baby born in a blizzard grown and standing confidently in front of her peers. She is seventeen years old, and we have stories we could tell. While being a mother there is rarely an opportunity to hear your life highlighted with three distinct points of impact on your child. On the contrary, motherhood is more like a sea of little details that make a house a home.
She has always been creative. As a little girl, her vocabulary was notably bigger than she was. I loved her little form always bounding into the room with her thumb in her mouth and twirling her funny hair. She was my silly girl. It was easy to locate where she was playing if you paused to hear the song she was belting from her lungs. Her bedroom floor was always littered with drawings and hot-glued streamer creations. She had a peculiar fashion sense and a love for penguins. Lydia was the youngest for eleven whole years, and I think she loved every minute of it.
This was my little Lydia, but as I watched her standing confidently in front of her peers delivering a speech about me, her mother, I felt emotional. Tears threatened to spill as she talked about her trust in me. She highlighted the little quirks and interactions gathered from the countless hours of numberless days. She no longer looks like the little girl who clung to my leg in public, she is almost a woman, fully grown.
From the desk in the third row, I flashed back in time to the frequent moments I had faltered in my leadership. I could see the younger mom locked in the bathroom after a self-induced mommy time-out. Trying to get a handle on being an adult, and keeping up with the to-do lists while meeting the demands of three young children was a challenge. Could I even count the number of prayers offered for this young beauty now standing with such poise?
She loves me. And I love her.
The year she was in fifth grade was particularly special. I was expecting Judah. She was ten years old. We would go on a walk down 42nd street every night. It was a long busy street that ran along the elementary school and past the high school. I treasure the memory of her many words at those times. She had so much to share about school and friends. I would often walk silently, just listening to her thoughts. It had been a hard year. My health was challenged by the coming baby, and my career was nearing its end. Those walks kept me connected to the wonder of childhood. Her open heart and passionate devotion reassured me that stepping away from my career life to be a stay-home mother would be a blessing. Still, the thought of leaving my job felt scary and dreadfully sad.
On those walks, she could never quite stay on her side of the path. As I waddled along she bumped her petite little hip into mine. “Lydia, move over please,” I would say, but in a few minutes there she was again bumping into me. It was almost like she wished we were connected at the hip.
I smile remembering my love for my own mother when I was ten. We too would go on walks. My mother's goal was to shed the extra baby weight she still had. Meanwhile, I would ramble on about school and friends. She would listen, mothers are good at that. I remember wondering what it would be like to be fully grown. How having breasts would feel when you wore a dress and had the power to turn a man’s head. I didn’t ask my mother about it though, I just wondered.
How had seventeen years transpired? Now I was a guest at my own daughter’s speech presentation, I was the guest of honor. How did this happen?
In a flash, all those difficult and slow years with three little children underfoot were gone. It was a time of tight budgets and busy work schedules. I remember the insecurity I felt as I climbed out of at-home life to become a career woman in ministry. Then, seven years later, when my career ended, I started over again. Life is like that, a series of stops and starts. When we think we have finally made it to the perfect level path we soon discover a rough patch right around the corner.
When Judah was born I hit a rough patch, as I struggled with postpartum depression. In time, I worked through it and after a few years, I found a new start in worship ministry again. Recently that season ended. My path took yet another turn, this time toward writing.
Do you find yourself on a new bend in the road? Are you trying to find your footing on a rough patch today?
I hope you know you are not the only one, and more importantly, you never have to walk alone. In this new season, I have been hearing my favorite verse ringing in my ears and echoing in my heart:
“Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight.”
Life is not mapped out for us. We walk each day by faith. As I look back over my life I am grateful for the gift of those dearest to me. I thought of this as Lydia stood with poise and grace delivering her carefully constructed words.
My daughter has been with me, we are walking together.
After she finished her speech I looked around to see the admiration of her peers. She is not just amazing in my eyes. No, as I looked around I could sense the admiration from her classmates. She is strong, she is passionate. She is hardworking and talented, but what makes Lydia unique is her huge heart for justice and the underdog. She lives from a passionate heart yet she is still my little silly girl.
She loves me. And I love her.
