воскресенье, 13 марта 2011 г.

A Letting-Go Kind of Love

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Devotional Stories for Mothers

BY: Michele Cushatt
The LORD is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.
~Psalm 34:18

He didn't want to tell me, afraid I'd march back to the school with a shaking finger and motherly lecture for a few of his peers. But I pressed. And pressed. After all, I'm a mom who makes an art out of extracting important information. Weary of my relentless questions, he finally confessed.

"Some kids have been picking on me at school."

Ah, the reason he'd been quiet. I kept my mouth shut, afraid any sound would stifle his transparency. Instead, I nodded my encouragement to continue.

"It happens mostly in Spanish, but sometimes in other classes and on the bus."

He described several incidents, nothing ruthless or dangerous, but not particularly enjoyable either. Most of the kids involved were kids we'd known for years. Then my son scrunched up his face and shrugged, unwilling to give vent to the emotions lurking below the surface.

"I don't really care, I guess. But it gets old."

I could tell he cared more than he let on, and the mother bear in me wanted to shoot off a scathing e-mail to his teachers or drive straight to the school office, educate them on the dangers of bullying, and demand an intervention. As if reading my thoughts, he begged, "Don't say anything, Mom. Please. It'll just make things worse. I can handle it."

The lines on his young face and the intensity in his eyes made me doubt it. I could see his hurt, and my heart nearly broke as a result.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart. What these kids are doing... well, it's not right." He shrugged again.

I gave him a hug, told him I loved him and was so proud of him, and then released him to his homework. After he left, I sat at my desk, head in my hands and ready to cry. Is there anything worse than the helpless moments of motherhood?

When he was a baby and cried from hunger, I fed him. When he needed a clean diaper, I changed him. Any time he cut a finger or scratched a knee, I ran to the rescue with Band-Aids and peroxide, ready to fix whatever was broken.

But I couldn't fix this brokenness. I'd respect his request and not intervene -- yet. Being a middle-school boy was tough enough without a pushy, overbearing mother. I'd have to sit back and watch him wrestle through this challenge, praying he'd rise above it, stronger and more mature as a result.

It was then that I got a glimpse of God's role in parenting me. At times, He's come to my rescue, diving in to pluck me from the middle of a struggle. Other times, He's allowed me to wrestle through the difficulty, hoping I'd grow and mature in the process. Occasionally, I've wondered if God is callous, unconcerned with my pain. But as I sat at my desk with my heart bleeding for my son, I understood that sometimes parenting means not intervening. It's learning to love by letting go, allowing your own heart to break in order to allow them to live their own story. And then waiting to hold them when they need a safe place in which to fall.


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