As audience members paired up and began doing the exercise, I watched their faces. I noticed the way people locked eyes. I saw some lean forward. I saw nodding heads and compassionate expressions. A deep connection between people who had never met was palpable. I vowed to remember what happened in that moment when we stopped controlling every word and allowed our innermost truths come to the surface. Barriers had crumbled, and the past lost a little of its oppressive grip with the empowerment that came with confession.
After the panel discussion, a young woman who’d volunteered at the conference for several years approached me. “The way you and your colleagues openly shared your hearts changed the atmosphere of the entire room and brought people together. Your willingness to be vulnerable touched lives here today, and it will affect the entire conference, maybe even the world,” she said hopefully.
I was hopeful too. I wanted more than anything to remain on this course toward true freedom, but this conference room of supportive strangers had acted as a safe haven for me that day. Would I be able to keep letting go of past mistakes amidst the challenges and pressures of real life?
Two days later, I had my chance. I was lying next to Natalie at bedtime, and she was telling me about the discomfort she felt while I was at my conference. “I couldn’t fall asleep when you were gone. I missed you tucking me in,” she whispered in the sanctity of her darkened room. “It helps me calm down to talk to you,” she added.
Your daughter needed you and you were not here, Guilt scolded, eager to add one more infraction to my long list of mistakes.
Remembering my vow from the conference, I shushed that harsh voice and focused on what my child was saying right here and now. “So finally I went downstairs and got a pair of your pajama pants and slept with them,” Natalie continued. “When I could smell your smell, I felt better. It helped me sleep. Then I was okay.”
In other words, my daughter spoke these words to my heart:
I don’t care where you’ve been. I’m just glad you are here now.
I don’t keep track of your failings. I’m just glad you are here now.
I don’t remember your mistakes. I’m just glad you are here now.
Because you know what comforts me? You — not what you did do or didn’t do last week, two month ago, or two years ago. You — the mere smell of your presence comforts me.
Sometimes God speaks to me in whispers; other times, he uses a bullhorn. Through Natalie’s message, I was powerfully reminded of God’s promise: “There is no distance too vast, no mistake too severe that could ever separate me from your love.” And like my daughter clung to those pajamas pants while I was away, I am now resting in these hope-filled truths:
Let us not be so consumed with the past that we forget we are here now.
Let us not be so bent on self-protection that we never speak our innermost hurts.
Speaking one’s deepest regrets does not change the past; it does something far greater. It connects us to the One who loves us despite our faults and failings so that we are free to connect to the person sitting beside us. This type of vulnerable connection, born of a place of deep pain and authenticity, is the kind of connection that is strong enough to transform individuals, families, communities, cities, and worlds.
Let us surrender the failures and pains of our past so that our love is not separated and weakened but instead united and strengthened.
HANDS FREE LIFE DAILY DECLARATION
Today I will be at peace with who I once was and feel hopeful for the person I am becoming. I will not view the mistakes of yesterday as failures but instead as stepping stones to the lovingly imperfect, grace-filled life I’ve always wanted to live. Who I am becoming now is more important than who I was then.
SURRENDER CONTROL TO BROADEN FUTURE OPPORTUNITIES
Natalie was fifteen months old when I first felt the desire to “freeze” her in time. She walked to the kitchen to greet me, just like she did every morning. She shuffled along in pajamas with built-in feet — the only kind she wore despite the fact we lived in Florida. Her diaper (which we were hip enough to call “diap” for short) protruded in the back, tempting my hand to give it a loving pat.
Natalie had a ridiculous amount of jet-black hair that stood up in random directions, yet always had the right amount of “puff” when she awoke. My child was happy — such a happy little morning person that I couldn’t help but be happy too. And although I was new to this mom gig, I had an unsettling feeling that this wouldn’t last. She would change. And although my rational mind knew I would love the older version of my beautiful child just as much as this pocket-size one, my heart hurt knowing I would never see her just like this again.
I experienced the same desire to preserve her in time on the eve of her third Halloween. I wanted to freeze her as she twirled proudly in her Snow White costume . . . when she danced to “Thriller” in our neighbor’s driveway . . . when she rolled on the floor laughing uncontrollably from too many Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. I kissed her chocolate-covered face and swore I never wanted her to outgrow that costume or my arms . . . ever.
I also wanted to freeze her on the first day of kindergarten . . . the way she bravely let go of my hand at the entrance of the school . . . the way her big brown eyes looked directly in my eyes as she said, “I’ll be okay, Mama” . . . the way she turned and looked back only once before walking into the big, uncharted world without me.
Later, I wanted to freeze her at age seven when she was challenged to a race by older boys from the neighborhood. She flew past the boys on the playground, hair flying and fearlessness etched into her gorgeous face. Suddenly, the realization that she possessed the strength and determination to do anything she wanted in life was as clear as her feet were steady.
I have a “freeze” list for Avery too. It includes the time she sang “Amazing Grace” with the voice of an angel and included a glorious pause midperformance to savor an adult-size yawn. And that day at Siesta Key Beach when we were unexpectedly knocked over by a playful wave. I literally fought back the tears as she pursed her exquisite pink lips tightly together and then happily declared, “Salt water tastes an awful lot like wasabi.”
Each time I felt this sense of longing to stop time and capture my child at that particular age, I let my desire be known. “Please don’t grow,” I’d beg my child with her cheek pressed up against mine. “Stay little forever, won’t you?” I teased, thinking it was the greatest tribute to Father Time, who I too often failed to appreciate and too often wasted on things that didn’t matter. What I failed to see was what such a request was doing to the ones who could not give me what I asked for. Thankfully, Avery enlightened me.
The subject came up during a one-on-one lunch date between Avery and my mother. In the midst of discussing her upcoming birthday, my child divulged this little bombshell: “My mom doesn’t want me to grow.”
Although my mother gently pointed out that her granddaughter was not traumatized when she spoke these words, nor was she upset, Avery had clearly said, “My mom doesn’t want me to grow up, but I do want to grow up, Grandma. I do.”
To say my heart stopped would be an understatement. As my mother relayed this illuminating conversation to me, my hand flew to my gaping mouth and my mind raced with the possible implications of my past actions. In my staunch belief that I was doing my children a favor by loving them so much I wanted to freeze them in time, I’d laid a mighty large burden on their shoulders.
Although Avery laughed every year when I jokingly said, “Please stay three” or “Let’s just skip birthday number five,” there was conflict in her heart. After all, children want to please their parents. Even at a young age, my child realized that out of anything in the world, she could not give me this. She did not have the ability to stop growing . . . nor did she want to stop growing.
After concluding the conversation with my mom, I immediately went to Avery’s room, where she was playing dolls. I sat down next to her on the floor, carefully
tucking my legs behind my knees as I struggled to form the right words. I decided there was no point in beating around the bush. “I am so sorry I’ve been asking you to stay little. That is not fair of me to ask of you,” I blurted out.
“Why?” Avery asked with a mixture of surprise and skepticism based on this sudden change of heart from her mother.
I admitted to her that although it was difficult to see her do more and more things without my help, I wouldn’t want it any other way. I told her it was my daily blessing to watch her get taller, stronger, and more independent. I assured her that my love had no age limit. “I will love you when you are a sixteen-year-old teenager driving a car. I will love you on the day you say, ‘I am ready to live on my own.’ I will love you on the day you get your first gray hair!” I concluded with six powerful words: “I love to watch you grow.”
Avery wrapped her arms around my neck and heaved an enormous sigh. I, on the other hand, fought back tears. Why was I having such an emotional reaction to this surrender with Father Time? I wondered. She wants to grow. This is okay. In fact, this is the way it should be! I reminded myself.
As if fate knew my newfound resolve needed to be put to the test, Natalie asked if she could start a daily exercise regime just like the one I had with my sister, Rebecca, when I was in grade school. Instantly, I regretted telling my children (whenever they whined about chores) that one of my summer duties as a child was to go for a walk each day with my sister.
Natalie laced up her shoes while waiting to find out if she could take her little sister around the small loop in our subdivision. I recited a new mantra: My children want to grow. My children need to grow. I will let them grow. I swallowed the lump in my throat and agreed to their independent adventure around the block. We discussed exactly where they would jog, and although no one seemed to care what I would be doing, I informed them that I would wait in the yard. The sisters ran off together without even looking back. I wiped my sweaty hands on my pants and assured myself it was time to do this. Then I waited.
Within four minutes, Avery came bounding around the corner. Despite the reddish hue from exertion, her face donned a glorious smile that accentuated her achievement. After describing the details of her “jog,” she reminded me that Natalie was going do the larger loop and would be back in a few minutes. So I waited some more.
After counting every mosquito bite on Avery’s legs and investigating a massive anthill next to the mailbox, I began to wonder why Natalie had not returned. I watched nervously as a dark cloud edged closer to our vicinity. I alternated glances between the threatening cloud and the street corner, praying I would see a blonde ponytail flying in the wind before the sky opened up.
No such luck. It began to pour. I raced inside to get my car keys and assured my terrified-looking child that we would find her big sister.
As I was carefully inching my car from the garage, Natalie sprinted through the grass and found refuge on the porch. Unfortunately, I did not see her huddled against the door because I was already searching the street with frantic eyes.
Avery and I made the full loop and saw no sign of Natalie. In a panic, my mind began playing out every misfortune that could come to her. I imagined a pedophile in a van with tinted windows. I imagined a freak lightning strike coming out of nowhere. I imagined a distracted driver fumbling with her phone as rain-covered streets became slick. I imagined rabid dogs, amnesia, and potholes the size of small cars. “I’ve lost her!” I cried out. “It’s my job to keep her safe, and I failed her,” I sobbed irrationally as I gripped the wheel with white knuckles.
Between the rain coming down on the windshield and the tears streaming down my face, I just barely detected a dot of color on our front porch. It was Natalie in her blue shirt! I swerved into the driveway, my eyes already examining her from head to toe. Other than looking a little worried and a little wet, she appeared perfectly fine.
As Avery and I ran toward her, I could hear her explaining the rationale for her actions with adult-like maturity. “I saw you leave to go find me, so I knew it would be best to stay here and not try to run after you.”
Avery reached the porch before I did, practically knocking Natalie over with on overly enthusiastic embrace. That’s when the two began talking and I faded into the background.
“I was thinking I wouldn’t have a sister anymore . . . and that made me cry,” whimpered the small one.
“It’s okay. Everything’s fine,” assured the big one, gulping down any remaining hint of fear in her voice. “Besides, you did great today,” Natalie cheered as she hugged her sister. “I watched you run all the way home. And then I made it all the way around — even in the rain! We’ll do it again tomorrow. Next time we’ll check the weather radar before we go, okay?” The girls smiled at each other in agreement.
Next time? The fear in me swelled. I didn’t want there to be a next time. I didn’t want anything bad to happen. I didn’t want to let them get out of my sight ever again. But alas, I knew there would be a next time. I would let them take this walk again tomorrow. Eventually it would lead to more, longer adventures like sleep-away camp, job interviews on the opposite coast, and perhaps missions trips on the other side of the world. Yes, there would be a next time. Because holding my children captive in time and place meant depriving them of moments like this — moments when they learn to make smart decisions that will help them navigate the world without me.
Seeing them hold one another was one of the most meaningful sights I’d ever laid eyes on in all my years as a parent. But much to my surprise, I did not think to myself, “I want to freeze them.” Instead I thought:
I want to let go and watch my children grow
and run
and dream
and create
and console.
I want to watch my children grow
and fall down
and get up
and help
and heal.
I want to watch my children grow,
with joy on my face,
gratitude in my heart,
and prayers of protection on my breath.
Although tears may still spring up as I realize with bittersweet emotion that another stage of my child’s life has passed, I intend to open my hands to the blessing of growth. I will call it: Letting go of my children in time . . . in their time. Prepare to see me on the sidelines, no caution tape in hand, watching in quiet joy as my children go forth, carrying my love and support on their small but sturdy shoulders.
HANDS FREE LIFE DAILY DECLARATION
Today I will acknowledge that my life is not quite what I expected. My children/marriage/career/dream are not turning out exactly as planned, but that doesn’t mean things are going wrong. In these diversions from the path I imagined, there are blessings seen and unseen. Today I will open myself up to greater possibilities by abandoning the way I think it should be and just let it be.
SURRENDER CONTROL TO FULFILL YOUR LIFE’S PURPOSE
I will never forget the first time Avery put on eyeglasses. My little kindergartener practically salivated in the vision center as the technician casually buffed the lenses before handing them over. Avery slid the pair of glittery pink rims on her face and peered in the mirror. BAM! My typically smiley girl, who all along was merely a bud, exploded into full bloom. As I marveled at this radiant child in spectacles, three words came to mind: Sunflower on Steroids.
While most people, adults and children alike, often flinch, cry, or curse at the first sight of themselves in obtrusive eyewear, my child delighted in it. As Avery brought the small mirror to her smiling face, tears sprang to my eyes and a sigh of relief escaped from my lungs. I was grateful that she liked her glasses but, more importantly, that she liked herself in them. It did not go unnoticed to my people-pleasing heart that my daughter did not turn to the technician, her big sister, or me to ask, “What do you think?” Avery loved those glasses and that was all she needed to know.
I fully expected her i
ntense optical love to wane, but it never did. In fact, watching Avery put on her glasses became my favorite part of the day. Each morning I gently rubbed away the smudges while Avery stood there in eager anticipation of the beloved spectacles being placed on her face. Judging by her expression you would have thought I was about to squirt whipped cream directly into her mouth or hand her a certificate that said, “Actually, you can suck your thumb for the rest of your life.”
It was hard to believe a pair of glasses could cause that explosion of happiness on Avery’s face. There she stood, displaying utter and complete joy as she looked at life through those little rims. I was in awe . . . and a tiny bit jealous. What the heck does she see when she peers through those things? I wondered to myself every single morning.
I really wanted to write about those eyeglasses, that expression, that confidence. I just knew there was something there, a huge Hands Free discovery just waiting to be revealed. So when I was asked to write a piece for a hugely popular parenting website, I was determined to write about the glasses. But after several days of blank pages and hair pulling, I gave up on the glasses. Instead I wrote about getting lost with three preschoolers when chaperoning a field trip and the Hands Free lessons that came with the experience. I took a risk and used humor along with my typical painful truths to describe my revelations. I couldn’t wait to see the response.
On the day my story was published, I posted a short introduction for my blog readers that directed them to the post on the parenting site. Within a few minutes of the post hitting my subscribers’ in-boxes, I received two emails notifying me of subscription cancellations. Two people had decided they no longer wanted to subscribe to “Hands Free Mama.” Instantly I wondered what I had done “wrong.” As feelings of rejection, shame, and insecurity washed over me, I mentally reviewed my post section by section to see if I could figure out where I had offended.
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