with

I am with Riley now, on her first day of work, the way I will be with her on the third day, when I walk all the way into the hospital beside her, over those high-gloss floors, our reflections trembling and undulating like we’re walking on water, which really comes down–doesn’t it–to a fixing of the eyes, and I ask her to show me the Way she’s learned to go, not so much because I don’t know, but so she’ll be sure she does.

When I speak of knowing the way, of demonstrating knowledge, I don’t mean just an intellectual awareness; and I don’t just mean which hallways she’ll take to get to her manager’s office.  But anyway, the point is I am with her now, although I’m not, and that’s not altogether different than how it will be when I’m walking right beside her in a few days, walking down that watery hallway.

Jesus, when you think of it, was really already with the disciples out there on the water before He came looking to them like some kind of ghost and called Peter out of the boat, before He told Peter to go ahead and come, like that water was as solid as a hospital hallway.

I don’t always let it well up, the reality of God with us.

Parents will understand: I’ve had watchfulness over, awareness for, alertness to my children from creation; the mamas, especially, will know this union, that began in the sharing of a Body, how that seals us together, my children and me, still, after all these years.  So, even as mine grow more independent, I am with them; I am knowing my people, even as my body sits, a knot of sisters sipping coffee, a mug warm against my fingers.

But now, this is what the Lord says—
    he who created you…
    he who formed you…

…When you pass through the waters,
    I will be with you.

Tuned-in mama-me wonders what Riley’s doing and what she sees now, if she’s at peace, even though everything around her feels foreign, because let’s face it, mama-knowing has its limits, and every mama needs to be still and know that He is God and that she, most definitely is not.

I glance at my watch.  Riley has been working at the hospital now for a little over two hours, and in a flash, my mind conjures a strange amalgam of a space she might occupy, pieced together only from the little I know about the plans for her day.  Gently, God reminds, knowing me.  He, the only truly ever-present One, sees what I cannot see.  I have amalgams pieced together, but He, the all-knowing one, has the unlimited, unobstructed, real-time view, and He is watchful.

You have searched me, Lord,
    and you know me.
You know when I sit and when I rise;
    you perceive my thoughts from afar.
You discern my going out and my lying down;
    you are familiar with all my ways.

I am with Riley, yes, but God is with Riley.  I know her, but He knows her.  Every doing-their-level-best parent only ever makes, along the way, a crooked-dim, quavering reflection of the all-good, all-knowing, ever-present parenting of God.

I scan the circle of sisters, mamas all, and lean in, letting it slip, how I’m half here, how I’m just receiving again that God’s all there and all here, too, all at once, and before, and in the past, forever.

But they know me, so they already know this, and only nod in the knowing, smiling into their coffee, until one of them finally, quietly says, her eyes on mine, you know: it’s His way, really, where she is, and she’s there because He made the way and is the way.

There is a way that appears straight that leads nowhere good, and the only way to really know—mind, body, soul–the actual Way to go, as Joshua taught the wilderness wanderers such a long time ago, is to watch God moving and follow.  A fixing of the eyes.  God already knows—in the Hebrew, yada, meaning completely—intellectually, experientially, intimately, knows—us and all our coming and going, being watchful and aware, and it’s really Him coming along beside, whispering close, be still and know, and this is the way–walk in it, or, walk in Him, because Jesus also said, I am the Way, and come, follow me, and behold, I will be with you always, even to the very end of the age.

My turn, only to nod.  Still receiving.

My sister, the one maybe speaking for all, she continues, her eyes as gentle as the hand she lays strong now on my arm, holding me.

And–it’s work He planned, work He made Riley to do; and she, my friend, is His masterpiece.

Don’t forget He’s with her.  And don’t forget how well He knows her.