Two months ago, my eldest daughter moved to Toronto. Somehow, like all of life’s upheavals, I survived this transition. That hollow ache—the result of the vacant space her colourful personality and limitless energy occupied—hasn’t been quite as insurmountable as I imagined it would be. I’m happy to report that it’s not all tears and pining, and I haven’t yet succumbed to numbing by chocolate! I may, however, be guilty of calling or texting her daily.
Last September was the first time in eighteen years that we didn’t return to homeschooling. A lot has transpired in a year. My eldest was married, my second-born began film school, my youngest went to “real school” and—as I mentioned—my eldest daughter moved out.
Despite being with my kids for untold hours over the years (people used to ask me all the time how I did it), I managed to reserve some space during our time homeschooling for personal pursuits such as writing, painting, and gardening. I understood that once my children launched I would have time to pursue these passions. That time tumbled upon me last September.
Now a full year has passed and after dedicating the year to my writing, I am earnestly awaiting the launch of two books, my novel, and my devotional/journal. Being a writer is a dream I’ve had since childhood which is now becoming a reality.
As precious as reaching this goal is to me, when compared to the depth of joy I have found in being a mom, the two don’t reside on the same scale. However much I adore writing, however cathartic I find painting, or pleasing I find gardening, I’d trade every page, canvas, and blossom for those conversations, those hours, and those moments of togetherness with my kids.
Maybe I’m being melodramatic. I probably am. My kids might say so and so might their dad. I know they need to make a life for themselves, but this heart stuff gets me every time. It’s not like I don’t see them anymore, it’s just that (apart from one) they don’t live here anymore. It’s the infrequent time we muster that makes me hang onto hugs too long, drive absurd distances to be with them, and take time for projects or events they deem worthy.
But that’s what love does. It gives. It sacrifices. It pours itself out.
Nothing is greater than love.
So in the past few weeks since she moved (I make it sound like forever instead of just two months) when my daughter has arrived home for a visit, you can imagine the kerfuffle. The rush to the door, the exclamations of glee, the suffocating hugs, the kettle promptly warmed for tea, the over-attentive lean into a conversation, the questions so as not to miss a detail, a photo or two.
It strikes me that this is God’s posture to us when we come to him for a visit. If I’m this ecstatic to spend time with my kids when they arrive home, how delighted is God to spend time with me? If I listen attentively to all the details of my daughter’s life, how much more does God listen to me? If I treasure these visits, how glad God’s heart must be with ours.
Psalm 139:7-10 reminds me that no matter where I go, how infrequent my visits, how far I am from God, how poor my choices, how desperate my circumstances, or how destitute my soul, God is faithful. He never leaves me.
Where can I go from Your Spirit?
Or where can I flee from Your presence?
If I ascend into heaven, You are there;
If I make my bed in hell, behold, You are there.
If I take the wings of the morning,
And dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea,
Even there Your hand shall lead me,
And Your right hand shall hold me.
The love I have towards my kids is but a small reflection of God’s love toward me, his child. Even before I knew God, even before I arrived for regular visits, He loved me. His poured-out, sacrificial love was first demonstrated through his Son’s death on the cross. God gave all to have a relationship with us. That’s how much we meant to him and may be one of the reasons he so desires to spend time with us.
When was the last time you arrived for a visit? You can be sure that God already has the kettle warmed.
Coming Septemeber 17th, 2019
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