oh, the places you’ll go
Zoe turns on the stairs to look back up at me, just a flutter of robe and tassel, a flash of royal blue, that hat crowning her swishing hair, and I think, This is one of those moments I’ll remember.
Some moments are like that, so weighted and important and real we can reach out our hands and grab up all the details, feel the swift passage of time all the way to the edges. Briefly, our deeper sight makes the lines sharper, the tastes richer, the colors more saturated, and we still, taking it all in, because here is the evidence of life that is, in one moment, both stunning and heartbreaking. The Bible says Mary the mother of Jesus “treasured things up in her heart,” and I understand; I have a hoard, a whole stockpile.
Driving Riley and Adam to school, I remember Zoe’s first day of kindergarten, how she slid her arms through half a dozen bags of school supplies, how she turned her head and looked back at me, eyes glistening, that impish smile, as if to reassure me that she wasn’t afraid to go. I had asked her if she wanted me to park and walk her inside, help her carry her things, help her find her new classroom. “No,” she’d said practically, that little white-blond ponytail shaking as she turned her head, “I can do it myself.” I had imagined she might say that, having witnessed countless times already in her short life that spark of courage, that set-shouldered independence, that determination deepening the blue of her eyes. I learned early that loving her well would mean opening up my hands.
I gasp, gripping the wheel, unprepared for the rush of emotion suddenly flooding. I must’ve made some sound, because Riley jerks her head toward me, checking my face for signs of distress. I inhale, carefully setting down the memory, opening my mouth to sing–loud, off-tune phrases. Life is a highway…and I don’t know why, but ever since I became a mother, there’s something about moving along the road that moves me to tears. Following the bus full of students–my kids included–on the way to a field trip, pulling away from drop off at school, driving anywhere post-momentous, I well up. Time swells in my throat. I feel the potential for separation, for change; I feel the shortness of my own arms; I feel the mysterious otherness, the holiness, of love, that we are all entirely separate and yet made for living as one. There is a soreness to pilgrimage that comes from the carrying and the letting go, a soreness that settles in the fingers, the palms. Motherhood is repetitively learning how to loosen your grip.
One day soon, we’ll drop Zoe off at college, another leaving. But I don’t like that word, drop, as though I release my children to some sort of freefall, hoping they’ll land on their feet. I entrust them. I let go, because God asks me to trust Him to do the carrying. Is the Lord’s arm too short? In the Bible, that question is incredulous, implying that nothing is ever too hard for God. After so long spent gathering my brood, my children may one day wander out of my reach. But they’ll never venture so far that God can’t reach them.
When I get back home, Zoe has changed out of her graduation clothes. She sits on a stool in the kitchen, her head bent over her phone, a hank of hair falling across her forehead. Absently, her bare foot taps the linoleum. She’s wearing lazy clothes–a slouchy shirt a few sizes to big, a pair of gym shorts. She looks up at me and grins, setting aside the phone. “I think God made me independent on purpose, because He knew you needed me to be, don’t you think?” she says, continuing a conversation we’ve never started, one that will never end. I get the impression that she’s lingered here, finishing her breakfast, licking toast crumbs off her fingers, just to talk to me. I plant a kiss on her cheek, considering this, thinking of how God gives us different abilities so we can bless and love and serve each other well. Even so, I struggle to understand His mindfulness of me specifically, that He would think of me so affectionately while creating her. And yet, somehow, I know He did. Zoe is vibrant and strong, fiercely beautiful, like a sunrise, and as gentle and kind as twilight.
“He does everything on purpose.”
I smile at her, gathering silky ribbons of her hair with my fingers. I know what she’s thinking, that Riley and Adam need so much of me, that at least she is able to make her own way. I have always wanted to be equally available to her; I wonder if I have managed it all, if such a thing is even possible. This is her way, telling me carefully that she was made for this, that God’s grace has been more than enough. It’s a natural blessing, this way that siblings of children with exceptional needs understand family, a wise and lovely way to see your life, to understand that you were made for love, that you are an individual and also a crucial part of something larger than yourself. I study her face now and find no resentment of our interdependence. She’s not saying she doesn’t need us; she’s acknowledging that we need her.
“Yes, I think He knew we needed your independence.”
She has needed this lately; to know that we’re happy to see her fly, even if I look at her and tilt my head, and she can see the seeding of tears. I smile; I blink; I flick my hand. It’s nothing, I want to say, but that’s not really true. It’s everything, these moments, like flying toward the shore on the crest of a glorious wave and being flipped upside-down as it crashes, tumbling headlong, bits of shell caught in your hair. It’s wonderful and bruising, salty but still quenching, thrilling and dangerous. It’s the top of the world and the bottom of the sea, the whole thing in one giant breath. But it’ll be okay, that’s really what I mean to tell her, because wherever we’re going now, God is already there.
