I have an Aunt

I have an Aunt Ellen that sends me a card every holiday. All the big ones—Christmas, birthdays, Easter—and the little ones, too—Halloween, 4^th of July, anniversaries, and all those in between. She is 90 years old and still takes time to send us love. Her notes are personal and her love is endless. She is a Great Aunt, my grandmother’s twin sister, and she deserves every bit of that capitol “G”. When I visit, there is a fresh Texas Sheet Cake waiting for me and I cook often with a cast iron skillet that she gave me recently. The skillet is over 100 years old and seasoned to perfection. She received it as a wedding gift from her mother. I love to think of all the meals that were prepared for her family throughout these 100 plus years as I use it to prepare meals for my family now. What an honor to have it in my hands and to have her in my life. She makes me so proud to say, “I have an Aunt,” in Ellen Marie Randall.

I have another Aunt Ellen—my mother’s sister—who has a heart filled with so much grace for those around her, I wonder sometimes if she remembers to keep some grace in reserve for herself. I hope she does. We all need a little grace-for-self in reserve. My Aunt makes me feel special in only the way an Aunt can. She is an amazing artist and has allowed me to hold one of her paintings hostage on a wall in my home. I mentioned that I loved it and it showed up in a package on my doorstep a week later. I didn’t intend for her to send it to me but that’s what she does. She sends out love, and it comes in many forms. I wrote a post about hanging on and letting go in October and mentioned Fall leaves in that post. I had a box of her Virginia, Fall-colored leaves on my table that week. She gets me and I love being able to call her Aunt and Friend. I’m eternally grateful that because of Ellen Diane Taylor, I can say, “I have an Aunt.”

My father’s sister, my Aunt Betty Jo, lives in Ohio and I haven’t seen her in at least 20 years. But as a child, she was one of my favorite people in the world. When we visited my dad’s family in West Virginia, I always wanted to stay with Aunt Betty Jo across the river in Ohio. She lived in a tiny house and raised dogs. I can’t tell you what kind of dogs, I just remember that as a young child I would walk beside this woman that could throw a 40-pound bag of dog food over her shoulder like it was full of feathers and watch with joy as she let me get dirty right alongside of her cleaning the dog cages and holding the new puppies. They also raised Emu’s and my uncle was small enough to be able to ride these big birds. My cousin and I would laugh and laugh, telling each other stories of him being on the Swiss Family Robinson beach racing these birds for fun. My Aunt Betty Jo taught me that being a woman didn’t mean being weak. Mother used to tell me I looked like my Aunt Betty Jo and that gave me pride. She was one of the first truly funny ladies I can remember being around and she makes the world’s best chocolate gravy. A little bit for the gravy, but a whole lot for the strong, funny lady she is, I love being able to say, “I have an Aunt,” in Betty Jo Goss.

I have an Aunt Monty that feels like a kindred spirit. Her house has always been warm and welcoming. She is a country lady in every sense of the word and I love her for every bit of country she has exposed me to. Food is meant to be fried and milk is meant to be chocolate. I have many childhood memories of the woods around their house. We spent a lot of time there when it was safe for kids to roam the woods until mom whistled us home. Aunt Monty has an infectious laugh and a compassionate heart. She is sister-in-law to my mother but they share a friendship that really takes the in-law out of the equation. Monty Ellis is beloved in my family and it’s a privilege to see her and say, “I have an Aunt.”

My Aunt Sunday is one of the sweetest women I know. I’ve never heard her raise her voice, though I’m sure one of her four daughters just might be able to say that they have once or twice. She has shown me that patience and love aren’t always easy to maintain firm grips on but when you turn around and look back at the journey you’ve made, you’ll be so glad for the determination you had to just hang on. She’s raised four girls that share a bond only sisters can understand. She married my mother’s brother, so she’s technically an Aunt by marriage but God brought her into our family and there she will always remain. I’m thankful that in Sunday Graham I can say, “I have an Aunt.”

These women in my life that I am blessed to call my Aunts have left permanent marks upon my life. They’ve been the source of wide-eyed wonder as a child, taught me and my sister what the laughter of women can really do for the soul, and have shown me how an awkward girl can grow into a graceful lady. Each one has given me a picture of the kind of Aunt I want to be. I’ve never taken the time to give them these words of how they’ve touched my soul, but I want them all to know that they have each played a part in making me the woman I am today. A woman I hope makes them proud to say, “I have a niece.”

Changed for Good

I hate rejection. I hate how pitiful I feel when I’ve been snubbed, forgotten, pushed aside. I hate how all I want to do is tell the person who wronged me all the ways in which they did so. But no amount of eloquence makes the words sound any less desperate to be wanted than the heartbroken lover on her knees begging to be taken back.

The sight of a beggar makes me cringe. Someone hanging on the edge of misery and desperation, the ledge their fingers grip requiring them to let go of all pride in order to hang on to what once was. What they so desperately want to be once more.

And yet, I’ve found myself there. Here.

I’ve been the girl once included in the game only to be left looking on from the sidelines.

I sat in on the secrets, the planning, the excitement, and then had to watch it all play out from afar.

I walked with them, talked with them, rejoiced with them, and in the end had to hear about them through the broken lines of a telephone game.

The love, the friendship, the togetherness we shared is now but a fleeting memory of what once was.

And now, as I allow the freshness of hurt to seep out from its dark, hidden place and let it be seen in the light by someone other than myself I feel the desperation clinging to me yet again.

Why must honesty about hurt and pain come across as desperate and pitiful? As if the person standing beside me has never felt the disillusionment of a relationship ended, a heart betrayed.

Why must we continue silently through the sting of rejection and disappointment as if we never really cared at all? As if the shrug of the shoulders is enough to shake off the heavy hurt that weighs us down.

The truth is I did care.

The truth is I did give it my all.

The truth is I did get hurt in the end.

But the bigger truth is this: that love? that passion? that person that caused the hurt? It was never all for nothing unless I allow it to be so. Pain needs our permission to cripple us.

The cut may have been deep enough to leave a scar but that scar represents healing and doesn’t that permanent mark upon the skin also tell of its even bigger mark upon the soul?

I’m choosing to learn the lesson set before me from the pain that is behind me. I’ve learned the true meaning of Grace and Kindness, both capitalized here because they should be capital actions in our lives. I’ve learned to see the good, especially when seeing it requires so much searching for it.

When it is oh so easy to see the bad and distasteful, I’ve learned to taste and see that the Lord is good.

He has given me a taste of His love and compassion and I’m left with the wonder of how I ever lived beside people without really seeing them. Not for how I could make them better but for how He has already made them best.

And so, in the end, there is no other choice for me but to be thankful for the hurt, for the pain. It’s the shaking of the fault lines in my heart that becomes the quaking of my soul. Shaking me awake to that which brings breath to my lungs and blood to my veins. To that which brings me life.

As i move on from situations of hurt and pain, I take the lessons in love that I’ve been gifted, for they are great and they are many, and I continue on, letting go of the bad that has changed me for good.

The Hanging On

Summer is still hanging on in Florida. Knuckles white with the grip, nails deep in the flesh as she longs to hold us in her heat for a little bit longer. You can feel Summer’s grip loosening each morning and evening as a cool breeze teases us, but then disappears in mid-day when her hands of heat tighten once more.

We never really get a season of Fall the way our neighbors to the north do. Our days will simply become bearable over the next few weeks when we will finally be able to say goodbye to the Summer heat, but the real beauty that comes with Fall in the north is all but missed in our Pine tree-filled neck of the woods. And all this hanging on of Summer reminds me of the hanging on I do every day. To the good and the bad, I hang on for dear life.

I’m hanging on to grace when I fail, in constant need for continued forgiveness.

Hanging on to compassion when I’m face to face with someone that needs it.

Hanging on to grief when I know I should let go and move on but somehow the pain of what was lost is more pleasurable in this moment than the joy promised in the morning.

Hanging on to a child’s laughter when all I want to give in to is anger.

Hanging on to a promise forgotten, a friendship ended, a love lost, all because I  just can’t. let. go.

Hanging on with desperation to my husband’s love and trying to let go of the time when we weren’t so loving.

Hanging on to hurt and pain because I have no grace in me for the person that wronged me like she did.

Hanging on to dance parties in the kitchen and hide-and-seek in the park.

Hanging on to memories of a brother loved, a grandfather treasured, a friend cherished, all taken from this world and now living in the next.

Hanging on to the words of beauty given to me by my mother and hoping with all hope that I can impart beauty and self-worth to my own children.

Hanging on to the women I count as sisters, finding solace in the love of an unconditional friend.

We hang on to so much. And we find that some things are worth every effort that the hanging on requires. Yet others are begging to be let go and the more we fight to hang on (to the pain, the hurt, the grief), the more we are robbed of the comfort, joy and peace that could be in their place if we would only let it go.

But the letting go is much harder than the hanging on. Like Summer’s heat letting go of our days and giving way to cooler weather, it seems we hang on far too long to that which does nothing more than burn blisters on our fairing skin. To all that keeps us sweating, miserable, and begging for relief. And yet we tighten our grip and hang on for dear life.

Like it’s the letting go that will kill us when it’s actually the only thing that can save us.

I’m finally feeling a turn in our weather and can tell that Summer is getting ready to wave her flag and release her grip. And so am I. This girl, who tends to hold on a little too long to hurt and confusion, who has allowed her hands to callous and blister under the pressure that the hanging brings, is going to follow Summer’s suit and let go.

If only I had a pile of beautiful Fall-colored leaves to break my fall…

Because of You

Stanley Loe
March 20, 1921 – September 28, 2012

Because of you…

We know that the strength of a man goes beyond his physical capabilities and truly lies in his ability to lift up the ones he holds dear, letting them rest in the strength of his love.

Because of you…

We’ve seen that sacrifice comes on the battlefield and the home front. That a commitment to serve is a commitment to be honored, whether beside a soldier or a son, you stood tall with loyalty and respect and make us want to do the same.

Because of you…

Your children have a heart to serve and hands to help and they’ve taught their children to do the same. We’ve seen those less fortunate have their needs met and their spirits lifted. We’ve watched you be a friend, a confidant, a leader, and a pillar of strength and grace when those around you needed it most. We’ve learned how to trust, protect, provide, and love…all because of you.

Because of you…

We know the warmth of Mexican blankets and the sweetness of Texas jelly beans.

We know that strategy counts, whether playing cards or carving a turkey.

We know the joy of laughing till we cry and hugging till it counts.

We know the comfort of a protective father and the sweetness of a nurturing grandfather.

We know that it’s ok to take two desserts and it’s a “dirty bum” that would say otherwise.

We know there is a time and a place for everything, even a good ole “Jimeny Christmas!” and “Holy Mackeral!”

We know how to feed fish from the dock and eat oysters from the half-shell.

We know that camping is fun in a tent but really should be done in an RV.

We know how to organize a garage and manicure a lawn with the best of them.

For all the joy, the love, the strength, and devotion this family has…we have it all because of you.

First Sentence

*photo source: http://www.metro.co.uk/news/160920-meet-3-legged-molly-the-wonder-horse

I thought my story was over the day I lost my leg, but I realized it was only just beginning when my dad brought home a new horse with a prosthetic leg just like mine.

My 10 year old niece wrote that last week for a “First Sentence” writing contest. The winner of the contest will be invited to write the rest of their story, to be printed in a national children’s magazine. I’m trying to get her to finish the story anyway. Tell me how it ends. How the little girl and her horse start their new journey together. Tell the world how there were so many obstacles, fears, unknowns that they both had to face to get to a place of trust in each other. She, trusting the horse to hold her, protect her, not stumble beneath her weight. The horse, trusting her to be gentle, know her limits, moving forward only when both are ready.

And I can’t help but wonder how many of us have these “first sentences” hanging out there with the rest of the story just begging to be written.  Isn’t it true that we look at a sentence like, “I lost my job today and I have nothing to fall back on” and we let it just sit there, sad, depressed, alone.

“My mother has cancer.”

“My husband cheated.”

“My son is failing all of his classes.”

“I lost my best friend.”

Whatever it is that tells you “I thought my story was over the day I…” needs more from you. Our lives  are begging for us to keep writing. There is ALWAYS an “until I” waiting to finish that first sentence. But too often I feel like I’m waiting for someone else to invite me to write the rest of my story. Someone to inspire me. Tell me I won the contest. When all I really need to do is pick up the pen and start writing it on my own. No invitation. No wins or losses. My story.

There have been several times in my life when I felt like the story was over. The story of love. The story of health. The story of spirit. But every time, no matter how long it took for me to find that pen and paper, I just kept writing. Just kept showing up. Some days the words flowed and I could feel the love creeping back in. Some days I sat in silence feeling like I was staring at a blank piece of paper that would never see words again. But I kept showing up with faith that something would happen. And something eventually did. Love found its way back. Peace came. Faith flowed.

It’s true that our stories don’t always feel like they have happy endings but I don’t think that’s the point of writing out our lives. We aren’t meant to live in this world always seeing rainbows and butterflies. We are meant to just keep going. Living out our stories so that others can have the courage to live out theirs. It’s an ebb and flow. Lows and highs. The tides of our lives coming in and out. But, like ocean waves that follow every receding tide with an incoming wave, so must we look at a situation of loss, hurt, fear, and allow it to be followed by peace, forgiveness, grace.

If you need a friend’s hands to help you get started, grab them. Trust them. Allow them to help you find your footing and start moving forward when you are ready. Grab the pen and just start writing. Maybe you have to cross a few lines out and start again. So what? Just keep going. Every one of us deserves to see our full story written out. Those first sentences are desperate for a second and third and before you know it you’ll have a paragraph, a chapter, a full circle story to call your own.

And they rode off into the blazing sunset, her horse finally trusting the leg that was not his own, allowing it to carry the weight of the girl that now carried his heart.

Unrefined, Unpressed; Redefined, Redressed

I want to be unrefined.

The unrefined ladies draw me in with their too-loud laughter and lack of concern for the prim and proper. They let their hair down and walk out in the rain, face up to the sky. They roll their sleeves up and dig down in the dirt, hands one with the earth.

The unrefined know the moments of life that require ankles to cross but live for the moments that beg for feet to dance. Oh, that the joys of this life would flow through me with unrefined abandon and that the children in my home would know to put napkins on their laps and elbows off the table but let them ask what’s the fun in all this dancing through life if the dance has to be refined?

I need to be unpressed.

Work presses me in the day. Chores press me in the evening. The loves of my life are left with an over-pressed mother who loses patience too easy and an over-pressed wife who finds solace in silence rather than comfort in dialogue.

How do we press back against the demands, the requirements, the necessities of life? How does is become bearable, doable, and dare I dream it to be loveable? I want to unpress the pressing. Simply stop. Step away. And come back unpressed.

I long to be redefined.

I’m redefining time-well-spent to mean laughter with my babies, dates with my husband, and prayers with my God. Too often we find ourselves simply trying to meet the demands of life and while the laundry, and dishes, and work are spitting out their demands, the people wearing that laundry and eating off those dishes and benefitting from the money that work produces are missing the quality of our time. They get the hand held up while we take a call—I’ll be there in a minute—or the date rescheduled for next week—when things will be less busy—or the prayers pushed back till bedtime—woke up late…again—and when will time-well-spent mean that it is spent on the ones that matter most?

This life begs to be redressed.

Raincoats in the sunshine because the forecast says thunderstorms. Tank tops in the cold because the weatherman warns of  a heatwave. Boots on the beach and flip flops in the snow because the other is where we will be walking tomorrow. Preparations for the next can make the now so uncomfortable and when did I start looking at what the next day, week, year may require and ignore what this current moment is offering?

He asks me to be clothed in righteousness but this current wardrobe feels more like worry, judgement, envy, and distrust and why do I allow all of this to sit in my closet and be pulled on each morning?

How is it that our faces can wear a smile while our chests heave under the weight of a burden-bearing overcoat? I know the days can’t all be clothed in morning glories and evening breezes but don’t we have some control over how we dress our life and don’t we know the One that can clothe us anew in grace and mercy each day?

Redressed. Perhaps the hardest one of all. The burdens on our shoulders and the weights around our ankles are there and on some level will always be. That is life, after all. But this life, this brutiful life, begs to be redressed in a way that allows us to move, to run, to dance beneath it all. That coat has buttons and those shoes have laces so that they can be taken off once in a while. I’m taking them off today and putting on something a little lighter. Perhaps they’ll be slipped on again tomorrow. Who knows.

But for today, if only for today, I’m choosing to be unrefined, unpressed, redefined, and redressed. Let’s dance.

Remember This

He walks in to the kitchen and asks for music. He wants to dance with mama in the kitchen. I turn the stove off and the radio on. His hands find mine as he tilts his head to the side and begins to move his feet. He laughs. And we dance. I say to myself, remember this.

She waddles in to the living room and takes the clothes out of the laundry basket, leaving little piles of clean clothes on the rug. I bend to clean up and she giggles, climbing into my lap. She wants to cuddle with mama on the couch. I leave the clothes on the rug to pick her up instead. And we cuddle. I beg myself to remember this.

He comes home from a long day of hard work and kisses his wife. I have been on his mind all day and he on mine. It feeds my soul something sweet that he seeks me out when he enters our home. We are finding our groove. Everyday the groove gets better. I want to always groove with this man. He looks at me with a love that no man has ever given me before. His tired body leans into mine. I give him my arms as a refuge as I will these arms to remember this.

She walks beside me through the halls of the nursing home. We enter the room that is now the home of the man that taught her life. His eyes register recognition with the love that only a father can give. I watch as my mother feeds him, embraces him, talks to him. Even when he can’t eat, can’t hold her back, can’t remember the stories she tells. She is there. She is his. The world has asked so much of her. Taken so much of her strength. And she has given it willingly. Again and again I see her give her strength away. And now I watch her as she cares for this man that needs her. And I tell my heart to remember this.

He lays in bed accepting her care. Breathing words slowly. Does he remember the strong man he once was? Does he remember his granddaughters playing with wooden blocks on his living room floor? Does he remember his life as we go about ours? I sit on his bed and take his hand. His great-grandaughter is on my lap blowing him kisses. She will never know the man I knew. He takes my hand and brings it to his lips, leaving the love of a kiss on the tips of my fingers. Dear God, let me remember this.

This life. This beautiful life. Remember this.

This post was written in response to Sarah Bessey’s post, “In which we are saved, right now {a synchroblog}“. These remember this moments are what save my life. From hurt. From chaos. From others. From myself. Remember this.

What is saving you?

Contemplations of a Babe

The contemplations
Of life are many.
We wonder
Who we are
Why we are
What we are.
I hope
Your contemplations lead you
To a place of surety.
Sure of who you are
Ellis Ann, mama’s girl.
Sure of why you are
Love. Because of love.
Sure of what you are
Beautiful, wise, caring. More than words can provide.
Your contemplations will be many.
Let your insecurities be few.
Contemplate the who, why, what but
Always come back to
You, because of love, my beautiful girl.

Defining My Words

I’ve run into a snag in parenthood. Trying to define the words I use is making me stumble awkwardly down the path of educating through dialogue. I believe in open communication with my children to the point where I even bore myself sometimes with all the communicating. You see, Vaughn, the butterflies come into our garden because of the nectar-producing plants. Nectar is a sweet juice that…zzzzz. I find myself in moments of explaining why or how something happened and realize I don’t know what words to use. Having to stop my explanation to my 4-year old of why people are mean sometimes to define words like kindness and forgiveness ends up losing us both on the many rabbit trails I find.

So last month I decided to focus on a new word each week. Figured it would be good character-building to introduce patience, grace, generosity, etc in at-home speak and it will help my kids keep up with the conversation when I’m in the car trying to explain why we need to be kind to everyone, even when we feel like screaming and hitting (like you just did to Timmy). You know, visions of me explaining, and them absorbing everything. Most likely it will be me explaining, and them zoning out completely. But my vision wins for now.

Anywho, I started with patience. My definition was “to wait with a happy heart”. I was so stinking proud of that one. Off with a bang! Over the course of the week I found so many opportunities to tell Vaughn, “I need you to be patient right now. And that means to wait with a happy heart”. And he bought it! That would stop him in his whining tracks. I actually started finding other things to do when he asked for something just so that I could give him an “exercise” in patience. You want a peanut butter sandwich? I realize it may look like I’m just sitting on the couch watching RHONJ for the 3rd time this week but I was actually just about to fold this laundry that’s been sitting here for two days so, “Hang on, son. Be patient for mommy. Wait with a happy heart.” (of course, I didn’t actually do the laundry) A little sick, I know. But I was character-building.

Week 1 done. Patience learned. I’m such a great mom.

That was last week. This week I chose grace. Definition: sharing or giving with a loving heart. I made a mental note to have all of my definitions circle back to the heart. The big lesson at some point down the road being that character is made up of things we do with our heart as our guide. Man, I am good. Mental note #2: maybe next week’s word should be pride. Nah.

Monday: I started by telling Vaughn that the iPad belongs to Mommy and I love it. I use it a lot and it’s something that is very valuable (rabbit trail here to define valuable) to me. I have games, books, and movies on it for you because I love you and I want to share this valuable thing with you.  I allow you to use it because I love you. And it’s with a loving heart that I share this thing with you. And that is an act of grace from Mommy to Vaughn. He smiled and said, “Ok, can I play with my iPad now?”. Um, I think you may have just missed my point. We’ll try again later.

Before bed that night I took one of Vaughn’s silkies (little silk blankets he’s slept with since he was a baby) and tell him about grace once more. I explain that this silkie is something that he loves and it would be a big act of grace to let Ellie sleep with it tonight. To share something you love with her and have a loving heart while doing that would be very graceful of you. He said he would think about this during story time. Side note: I looooove this age. Watching the thought process and reasoning happen is incredible to me in such a young person. I look at him as a baby still and then he has these moments that remind me of his personhood and I fall in love with him over and over again. Fast-forward to end of story time. He tells me that he loves his silkie and he loves his Ellie and he wants to be grace. (We’ll work on how to use these words later. The point right now is what it means, and CHECK, he got it!) He hands her the silkie. I’m blown away but try not to show surprise at this huge act of love. It doesn’t matter that there are three other silkies laying beside him. What matters in this moment is that he chose grace. I really want to be all ram-in-the-thicket and give it right back to him saying it was all a test and YAY! You aced it! Because honestly, Ellie has silkies of her own and doesn’t really know the difference yet between hers and his. And I’m just so darn proud of him. But I let it stick and put Vaughn’s silkie in the crib with Ellie.

This morning, however, he came to his senses and saw her with it, promptly forgot all forms of grace in his morning stupor and snatched it out of her hands. A work in progress. All of us.

But I realized that this exercise of word defining is teaching me more than Vaughn. Over the past two weeks, I’ve sat in waiting rooms (there’s a reason they are called waiting rooms, not patience rooms. I DO NOT have a happy heart when I’ve been sitting for an hour after my appointment time with no end in sight. There is waiting with a happy heart and then there’s waiting. BIG difference.) and had my patience tested more than I would have liked. But because I’m consciously trying to teach these things to my kids, I’m trying to live them out as well. Teaching a word and living a word is also two vastly different things. Mental note #3 to write about that sometime.

I also had the opportunity to extend grace to my new friend, Faith, this week with my Monkees and she began telling me of a community service project she got involved in last week as a result of the help she had received from us over the past month. She said, “Everyone needs something. And everyone has something to give. It doesn’t matter who you are. We are all called to be faithful servants of God’s love. And that means that we give His love consistently to everyone we meet, no matter who they are. Rich or poor, healthy or sick, man or woman, child or adult. It’s not our call to judge; it is only our call to love.” Faithful servants = loving consistently. Hmmm…

I’m astounded at the ways in which God is teaching me how to love. I may have a little bit (a lot) still to learn as I try to parent my children to be givers of love but I’m so thankful for people like Faith that have been brought into my life to teach me. To show me that no matter how I try to define all the “big words” of life for my kids, the only words that truly matter are those that circle back to the heart.

Next week’s word: Faith. What better way to teach it to someone else than try to learn it myself?

A Mother’s Silence

I’m learning to be silent these days. I’m learning the true meaning behind the phrase, “Silence is golden”. And I’m learning that sometimes it is so stinking hard to keep my mouth shut and just. be. silent. Because there are times in life that require us to be still. We find ourselves in situations where we either have only harsh words that would cause hurt if we allowed them to slip past our lips or we simply have no words to speak that would be an adequate and worthy response.

This is one of the biggest revelations I’ve received as a mother. And I’m realizing that a mother’s ability to be silent is one that changes throughout the years and, depending on the situation, may not always be a choice, but quite often is just simply all that we have to offer.

My kids are still young enough for their infancy to be fresh in my mind. I can still feel their tiny, infant bodies in my arms and see their new, days old, faces staring back up at me. I sat with each of them in the midnight hours of a quiet house and stared at them with a silent awe. The silence that a new mother has in the presence of her baby is filled with wonder, joy, love, hope, faith, fear, gratitude, and so much more. We stare at our perfect babies in silence because there are simply no words that would encompass all of the emotions exploding within our hearts.

Moving into childhood, I’ve had to learn a different kind of silence. One of those “pick your battles” kind of silences. There have been moments when I’m not proud of the way I reacted to my child’s temper tantrum. It doesn’t matter that it was the 43rd time he had thrown himself on the ground screaming about not having any green M&M’s that week. I’ve lost my cool and realized that in doing so I helped no one. So, I’ve had to learn how to walk away. Just be quiet and let him know that he isn’t going to get a reaction. This is one of the hardest forms of silence I’ve had to master so far. It’s not easy to keep my mouth shut when I have SO MUCH TO SAY!

Our children require our silence, too, at times when they are figuring out the world. We can tell them how to do something and show them the way, but ultimately, at some point we have to step back and be an observer as they begin to navigate their journey. We learn to be silent instead of saying, “See, I told you so” when mistakes are made. We keep our mouths shut as we learn that we cannot fight our kids battles, no matter how much we want to. They are going to fight with friends. And while it’s important for us to show them how to be a friend, how to respect people and be kind, at some point we have to be able to step back and watch as they realize that life is hard and people aren’t always kind in return.

I don’t have experience as a mother with kids older than mine but I’ve got a mother that has had a lot of experience in learning what it means to be silent as a mom.

Last week I had the rare privilege to sit and have a face-to-face meaningful conversation with my mom. This is rare these days because we don’t live in the same city and when we are together we often find ourselves wrapped up in family activities. The opportunity to sit, just the two of us, and talk is one that, all too often, eludes us.

We talked about a mother’s silence. About what it has meant to her over the years through the different stages of life and the lessons she learned along the way. We laughed about times she had to find a place of silence and let me walk out of the house wearing clothes that didn’t match and hair that desperately needed styling. Let’s just say that as a pre-teen I wasn’t into fashion. Or shampoo. But I walked out of the house believing I looked good and she didn’t want to damage my confidence. This is a silence I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to master.

There are so many moments, conversations, experiences, arguments that our children go through that we as mothers must simply watch and fight the urge to contribute an opinion to. Their excitement about trying out for a sports team you know they will not make. A girlfriend that you can see is just not that into him. A mistake they made and a consequence they must face. A lie told but no proof to show.

How do we know when to back away in quiet observance and when to step forward and offer parental wisdom? Whether they know it or not, our children rely on us to be the people of honor and integrity that we want them to become. The thought of having to keep some of my opinions to myself as I watch my child grow and learn and become terrifies me.

There are, however, other moments of peaceful quiet that I look forward to. Watching my child walk down the aisle to the person they’ve chosen to create a life of love with. Holding my child’s child in my arms, knowing that only then will my son or daughter realize the depth of their mother’s love. Experiencing the stillness of life–those God-given moments when all is right with the world and I have nothing else to do but just BE with the children that make my heart beat.

The harsh reality of life is that not all moments of quiet are peaceful. There are far too many mamas out there that have known the deafening silence that follows the loss of a child. My own mother has lived through this hell and I can’t begin to imagine the overwhelming sorrow and grief that must have screamed through her insides when there were no words that provided an escape. Then there came a time when she felt like she was finally able to talk, to form words, to make an attempt to get it out. But was met with a new wall of silence as she turned to find someone, anyone, that welcomed an admittedly uncomfortable conversation and came up empty. She sat in silence because she didn’t want to force that awkward conversation on someone. She questioned her ability to open her emotional well without making her listener feel like they needed to respond. And so she sat. Silent.

My mother now faces a new kind of silence as she cares for her aging parents. She is relied upon for her mother’s daily needs–all of them. From breakfast to bedtime, there is little that my grandmother does without the help of my mother. They have found their groove in this new phase of life but it has not been an easy road to navigate. There are still moments when my mom sits in quiet reflection as she realizes that her mother is no longer the strong, in-charge woman of her youth. It’s difficult for her to sit in this new place of silence with the woman that was once silent with her.

Silence is a funny thing. As mothers we start out staring at our babies with silent awe and wonder. Then, throughout life, the silence takes us on twists and turns through joy and sorrow. But in the end, it leaves us again in a state of awe and wonder and we look back with appreciation at the life we lived and those that were a part of our journey. I hope that at the end of my journey I am silent in complete gratitude for all that God did through me. And I hope that those reflecting on my life don’t stay silent for long. I want the air filled with laughter and love and stories of a woman that lived with happiness and joy. Here’s to the silence; may it leave us with peace. And here’s to joy; may it never cease.