good talk

“I understand sometimes she has a hard time, and I don’t mind.  I don’t.  You know?  I let things go.  I don’t make a big deal,“ she says quietly, sipping thoughtfully, sitting carefully across from me at a dot of a table. If we could but offer each other this, that we all make unintentional mistakes.Zoe jiggles the straw in her cup, and I see the open reflection of her in the domed lid, without mask or hint of pretension.  Below her long, darkened lashes, I catch the hint of smudges.  She’s still just practicing. But really, aren’t we all?  She has so many of her father’s best qualities, including an ease for offering grace.  She finds no purpose in contention, and it shines in her, a shade of smooth peace that wraps our living. Do everything without grumbling or arguing (Philippians 2:14)…And the Lord’s servant must not be quarrelsome, this a still echo of something resonating as I see her (2 Timothy 2:24).  Not the hurried glance but the true sight of her, the way she’s suddenly serious and vulnerable, the lengthening angles of her face.  God has lately sharpened my eyes, has lately strengthened a commitment in me: to really see my children well. Suddenly, I smile, realizing that Zoe readily attributes this peace-guarding nature to her sister without ever claiming it for herself.

“I know.  I see that, and I’m proud of you.  We all make mistakes…it’s so important to give each other room for error.”  I smile at her, licking whipped cream off of my lip, thinking that it is a sign of the time sitting across from her—sweet, indulgent. Like her dad, Zoe is also careful about whom she entrusts with her depth.  Lately, she protects our dates like holidays, begging out of other opportunities without regret.  And as the years come so quickly, more and more I hold these moments precious in my palms and study them.  We love each other in every perspective, and this too is the reflection of God’s reach.

For the past hour, we wandered through a store gasping at price tags, running our fingers over blankets, giggling over tusk-handled accessories and eccentric art. She lifted a giant spoon, feigning greed over it’s functional size, and I laughed, a cleansing, weightless sound that seemed to fill our morning.  Occasionally, we stopped without preamble to appreciate color, the blend of evocative shade, just a wordless moment, a mutual pause and then a glance sealing unspoken agreement.  We read a children’s story book to each other out loud, sliding in and out of narration, and I gathered a few early gifts for friends, offering her the value of considered details.  We have found joy just in wandering together, in having no particular productivity other than spending time with each other. God shapes her well, this growing girl.  I see His hands still at work, gently moving through her.

“But Mom—the thing that I can’t figure out is that she seems to make a big deal out of every mistake I make.  It’s like I don’t get to have a hard time, like I’m supposed to do everything right all the time.” I wince, stabbed mother-deep, and I see the acknowledgement of it shining in her eyes.  Aren’t these the painful tides of our relationships?  We all live desperate for grace, but so easily slip right into measuring someone else’s performance.  In the face of such evaluation, we are all eternally guilty and painfully inadequate.

“And you don’t understand why she doesn’t offer you the same room for error that you offer her,” I say, lifting my drink, pondering her dilemma.  “Have you talked to her about it?”

She smiles at me, having expected the question.  “I’ve tried.  But it doesn’t help.  She just tells me I shouldn’t be upset and then keeps on expecting me to be perfect.”  It’s a difficult thing to offer grace and in turn to receive unrealistic expectations.

I sigh, gathering up the sight of her listening, waiting.  I wonder how long she will believe I know what I’m doing.  The truth is that I have no idea; that I stumble along; that I don’t trust my own interpretation of things.  We’ve so much evidence of the mess made as we go our own way, and God has written it clear across me: Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding.  In all your ways, submit to Him, and He will make your path straight (Proverbs 3:5,6). I open my mouth, and those are the words that tumble out.  She blinks.  “Hunh?”

I smile at her, and she giggles, the smallest snicker ultimately full-blooming into a belly laugh, until I am laughing too.  Her eyes sparkle.  “I mean, I know that verse,” she says, gathering herself and sitting up.  “Well, a little.  But what does it have to do with what I was saying?”

“Only that I don’t know all the answers,” I say, still grinning broadly at her over the table.  “I know that you’ll never be perfect this side of heaven, so you might as well not be beaten by the expectation.  I know that you have to do what God wants you to do even if it’s hard and regardless of what anyone else chooses.  (“I do, but I just,” she interjects, and I hold up a hand, gently.) And I know that you need to see the best in your friend, even when she’s unreasonable. But having said all of that, I have to return to the first thing:  Make sure that first and above all else, you trust in God with all your heart, and submit to Him.  He alone searches hearts and knows the why deep in someone else.  Everything isn’t always as it seems.”

She sips her Frappachino, until the air gurgles in the straw.  “It’s just hard,” she says, appraising the bottom of her cup.

“Yes.”

She looks around her for a trash can, glancing at me with a zany smile, adopting again the part of her that must try on every mask in a store and pose in it.  “Sooo, ready to go to another store?”

“Of course, let’s do it,” I agree, gathering my purse in my hands.

And as we walk away, she reaches up and pats me on the back and says, “Good talk, Mom, good talk,” and careens away from my rib-poking hand with another giddy giggle.