A Mother's Tears

It was November 17, 2008. The number 17 was a lucky number in my family, full of significance - having claimed birthdays, anniversaries, and soccer and basketball jerseys. I was still a week from my due date, but I just KNEW Jack would make his first official appearance on the 17th. Sure enough, my contractions began that evening and my precious first born son was born 28 hours later. The first time I held him in my arms, I felt so blessed, so thankful, so overjoyed, so tired. But it wasn't until I was being wheeled into my recovery room, baby boy wrapped in blue nestled in my arms, onlookers in the hallway peeking into his blanket as they passed us by, that I shed my first tears as a mother. They were proud tears. Jack hadn't done anything but look at me - and I was so so proud of him.

I am a sap. (Thanks, Mom, for that trait.) I still can't get through the beginning or end of Finding Nemo without bawling my eyes out. Folgers commercials have a way of tugging at my heartstrings - and I don't even like coffee!!! When I was pregnant, Wheel of Fortune even had a way of opening the flood gates. It's ridiculous, people. I would like to interject here that I am an emotionally stable person, however, I am extremely empathetic - which is a blessing and a curse all at the same time. If I ever thought I was sappy before I had kids, however, I had no clue what I was talking about.

If I bottled all of my tears over the past five years of being a mother, I'd have enough salt water stored up to fill an Olympic size pool. Thankfully, tears stem from lots of different places, and many of these tears have been shed in pure joy. Jack and Gabe's first laughs... and their first steps. The first time each of my boys said "I wuv you, Mommy." My boys' budding sense of humor, each with their own ability to make me laugh until I cry. And then, when one of my boys crawls into my lap at the end of a hard day, just to snuggle. Tears of joy.

Then there are the moments I waited for... watching my children explore new things, knowing the joy and thrill each new discovery would bring. The initial run - no sprint - from our beach house to the brink of the vast ocean, and the first seconds of the waves washing over tiny toes that just can't decide where to dig into first, the water or the wet sand. The moment the castle at the Magic Kingdom came into view, as we meandered through a crowd of eager onlookers... the heavy feeling of anticipation lifted, tears of excitement overflowing.

Sometimes God uses my kids in mighty ways to minister to me. When Gabe (age 2) remembers to extend his hands at the dinner table, reminding us to bless our food. When Jack remembers to pray at bedtime for a family member or a friend who is sick or hurting. When I see my tenderhearted boys reach out to a friend in need on the playground, or approach someone who appears to be sad and alone, and big smiles replace sullen faces. These tears are filled with blessing... they are a gift.

There are also tears shed in pain, fear and anxiety (and there are oh so many of those.) When my 3 month old Gabriel was fitted for his shaping helmet, his tiny little head wrapped tightly in a mold while I held his squirming body and listened to his cries. The night I carried my 4 year old into the ER at midnight because he woke up unable to breath. Losing a child in the middle of the largest theme park in the country (the longest six minutes EVER). Every day of the journey of Jack's testing for autism. And just last week, I sat in the lobby, waiting to hear the screams of my child echo through the dentist's office as his cavities were filled. Tears of fear and anxiety are the worst.

However, through all of this, my tears were never shed alone. When I was filled with awe and wonder over the little miracle I was holding in my arms for the first time, God was there too, admiring the sweet boy He knit together in my womb (Ps. 139:13). As I enjoy the special moments with my children as they experience something new for the first time, God is there too, bearing fruit in my life that stems from the Spirit (Gal. 5:22). As I sit back and observe my children and their tenderness towards others, God is there too, reminding me that "whoever humbles himself like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven" (Mt 18:4). And when I sow tears in fear and anxiety, God is there too, telling me AND my child not to fear, for He is with us, He has called us by name, and we belong to Him (Isa. 43:1).

As a mother, it is hard to turn off the fear and worry. I am so thankful for a God who doesn't need my strength to carry on - He goes about His work, supplying what I need when I need it. I wonder what He saw as He looked down on me in the waiting room at the dentist's office last week. A mother, wrought with anxiety, feeling like she was going to puke at the thought of her child never speaking to her again after such a traumatic experience of having his teeth drilled... But, at the same time, He was also looking down over my Jack, who was as happy as a clam in the dentist's chair, the only issue he was facing was whether he was going to have time to play with the pet chinchilla when he was done. I had prayed for peace for Jack - so had many others - but I had forgotten to pray for myself. When the dentist's assistant came out and told me that Jack was doing great, I started crying anyways (the flood gates were already open, I was just waiting for the cue) but instead of tears of sadness for my boy, God blessed both Jack and I in that moment - giving Jack peace, and his momma relief. I am so blessed to know that my tears are never shed alone - in joy and in sorrow, in pain and in fear - God is with me, catching each tear as it falls into His hand.

Psalm 126:5-6 tells us, "Those who sow in tears will reap with songs of joy. He who goes out weeping, carrying seed to sow, will return with songs of joy, carrying sheaves with him." God planted these children, like seeds, in my life... and I am watering these precious seeds with my tears. Every moment, whether a joyous one or a hardship, brings about the opportunity to love my children and teach them about their Heavenly Father who loves them even more.

When I was pregnant with Jack Ryan, I studied the Psalms of Ascent in a Bible Study. I came across Psalm 127, and it became my prayer for all of my future children. "Sons are a heritage from the Lord, children a reward from him. Like arrows in the hands of a warrior are sons born in one's youth" (v.3-4). I decided I would raise my children to be arrows in the hands of the Lord... mighty warriors for Him. Arrows need sharpening. My tears are just one example of what that sharpening looks like. Some teaching moments are more difficult than others. Some moments leave me feeling hurt. Other moments are harder on my boys. But God is our Healer, and he reminds us in Psalm 126 that as we continue to sow these seeds, we will return with songs of joy and a bountiful harvest.

The name of my second son, Gabriel Arrow, is a steady reminder of the commitment I made to God to raise my children in a manner which will strengthen them to be leaders among their peers... strong mighty men ready for the Lord's work. Every day is a new page in my story, full of life lessons, joys and hardships. But God has reminded me that its not just my story that I'm responsible for. As Jack and Gabe's mother, I am instrumental in helping them write their own stories - every step of the way, by caring for and watering my precious seeds... with tears and all.

 

The Story Before Your Story

Part of my childhood consisted of my parents, my three younger brothers and myself piling into our wood paneled minivan, driving all over the East Coast to visit our relatives. My dad's mom and grandmother lived in Long Island (pronounced Lawn G-I-land - in case you didn't know), so at least once a year we would make the six hour trek to visit my grandma and great-grandma. I have memories of helping my grandma make cole slaw (hers was THE best), in her small little kitchen. I recall seeing my great-grandmothers teeth soaking in a cup in the bathroom we shared. I'm pretty sure I tried them out. I don't have many recollections of my great-grandmother, as she passed away when I was twelve. But I do remember this.

She would always sit in an arm chair in the living room at the front of the ranch style house. The chair set back in a corner, away from traffic. Away from noisy great-grand kids. But, I was a young little dreamer who loved to walk around the house, belting out Debbie Gibson tunes. I mean, I just knew I would be singing back up for her someday. And as I would sing, pirouetting past her like a clunky snowflake, she would frown at me and yell, pointing her finger at me, in Russian. She was the tiniest little Russian woman I have ever seen, but man that lady was INTIMIDATING. I grew fearful of her, always bringing my melodies down to a whisper when I would pass her by, avoiding eye contact at all costs. And then once, after avoiding eye contact with her for years, I decided to look at her. I don't know what possessed me. But I am so glad I did.

I had been singing and floating about, and she gave me the biggest smile! Her soft, wrinkled face gave way to a huge toothy grin, pushing her deep, weathered eyes into tiny little slits. She slowly rose from her chair, the smile still remaining, and grabbed my hands and began to dance with me. "Oy yoy yoy!" she sang and twirled me about. I'm not sure I breathed during this entire encounter. After a quick little dance, she sat back down, stern look back in place, and I quickly sauntered out of the room.

Something prompted this memory to emerge in me the other day, and it got me thinking about legacies. What has been passed down to me over the years? What do I hope to leave for my children? When I am long gone, singing much better than Debbie Gibson with a choir of angels in Heaven, what will be remembered about me? I am so thankful for the fun memory I have with my great-grandma. But that is the only memory I have of her. I never knew her. I never knew her heart, her fears, what her life was like, why she was the way she was. This thought really bothered me this morning. What was her legacy? Surely there is something important I should know about this woman that greatly impacts my story. I wanted to know more. So I picked up the phone.

My children have been cursed with My Mom Is On The Phone So We Need To Be Very Needy And Loud And Fight ALOT Syndrome. This is why I never pick up the phone and call people. EVER. So I did what any good mom would do - gave my kids a bag of popcorn, popped in a Caillou DVD and locked myself in my bedroom. And I called my grandma. We had a lovely conversation. I asked her questions about Great-Grandma and her upbringing, and about her own childhood and how she met my Poppy (who passed away when I was three.) I learned alot today.

My great-grandma, Elizabeth, immigrated from Poland when she was of high school age. She came to the States alone. She had two parents and a brother and sister that she left behind... and she NEVER saw them again. My grandma's reason for why Elizabeth left her family behind was because she wanted a better life. Poland was under the ruling of the czar, and Elizabeth dreamt of a new life. My grandma told me that she knew nothing about her mother's life before coming to the States. Elizabeth never talked about her childhood. According to my grandma, her mother's story began when she arrived at Ellis Island. After getting settled into a community in New Haven, CT, Elizabeth met my great-grandfather, a Russian man who immigrated about the same time she did. They were married, moved to Philly (where my grandma was born), and then ended up in Brooklyn.

My grandma grew up in an ethnic neighborhood. Her parents formed a club with other Russian families in the community. She met my grandfather through this club. They were childhood friends who grew up together and eventually married. My grandma said most of the girls and guys in this club paired up and married later in life, which included her sister as well. As I continued to listen to my grandma tell her story, I was amazed at how much I felt I had missed out on, simply not knowing my family history... my roots.

You see, my story didn't begin the day I was born. The legacy I leave behind doesn't just encompass what I have done during my little blip of a life that's marked on a massive timeline that begins with Creation. My story began with Creation. All the days ordained for me were written in His book before one of them came to be (Ps. 139:16).

Ruth the Moabitess. A woman who so very long ago was called out of her homeland to follow her grieving mother in law to an unknown future in a new and unfamiliar place. Ruth left what she knew behind, and trusted in God's promise of provision.

My great-grandma Elizabeth. A young teenager who dreamt of a better life. She had no small amount of courage as she waved good bye to her family, most likely knowing that she'd never see them again. All for the sake of an improved life - and having no idea what would be awaiting her.

Then there is me. I didn't move to another country (though I do have to admit, leaving city life and moving to farm life was a huge life-altering event), but I did leave what was familiar behind. I said goodbye to a life I felt entitled to. Simply submitting to God's calling in my life to become a farmer's wife, I ventured into the unknown.

The stories of our history - of those in God's Word, and those of our ancestors - season our own stories with hope, encouragement, and expectation. Ruth's story gave me the courage to follow the Lord's calling in my life to become a farmer's wife. Ruth's story became a part of my story. My great-grandma had to have had a crazy amount of courage and strength in order to make the choice to leave Poland. Had she never set foot on that rocky boat that carried her across the ocean, I wouldn't... be. Part of the legacy I inherited from my great-grandma is her inspiring story to dream big and DO IT. I can't imagine what it was like for her to experience a wedding, childbirth, and all of life's blessed moments without her mother, sister, father or brother. But the benefit of what she expected far outweighed anything else.

Our stories were prepared by those before us, and our own legacies influence the stories of those who follow us. Part of what I can leave to my children is the knowledge of where they come from... where I come from. And it matters. Another word for legacy is inheritance. In Matthew 25:34, Jesus says, "Then the King will say to those on his right, 'Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world." Knowing God's Word - stories that were breathed by the Creator of all things, the Master Author of the Book - is a vital part of the legacy I can leave to my children. Claiming the inheritance that the King of Kings left for my children, is their birth right - and it is up to me to make sure the legacy I leave points to that inheritance.

When I look back on Ruth and Elizabeth's stories, I see how our faithful God blessed their courage. Our history reveals Our God in mighty and powerful ways that we can share with those that we encounter. I never would have guessed that the old lady with the steely eyes and furrowed brow who always sat in the corner, would be someone I would someday come to respect... and relate to. I wish I could talk to her now and ask her about the trip from Poland to the US. I want to know what her childhood was like... what was she feeling when she stepped on foreign soil, so young and alone? My unanswered questions leave me with my next thought.

It is imperative to share our stories. Our testimony of God's greatness in our lives is the greatest legacy we can leave our children. Seeing growth and change span across generations is a marvel to me. And I don't ever want to forget the story before my story. God weaves our lives - our stories - together like an exquisite tapestry, each thread dependent on the previous one, tightly bound into one beautiful masterpiece.