Let's Stop Lying

“Mama. I’m afraid of dying. I’m afraid that I won’t be able to see my gecko again in heaven.” said my 9-year-old.

“I’m afraid of dying too, Love. But honestly, I am afraid of a lot. I try not to be, but the truth is that I have big fears.”  I admitted.

“I also feel really bad about the things I have done that are bad. Things from the past. Like when I hurt my gecko on purpose when I was six,” he confided.

“Uh huh. I have a lot of things I feel ashamed about too. Things that I have done. Bad things. Like when you were little. I pushed you once. You hit your brother and I pushed you out of the way. I was so angry. You were only two, and he was one. And I felt so ashamed of myself. In anger, I shoved you.”

His eyes opened wide. Relief and curiosity and disbelief washed over his face, releasing the tension, allowing hope to reflect from my eyes to his. He saw that I am weak. I am human. I am like him.

“Really?” he begged for more details. Each one that I provided made his face relax a little bit more.

I wonder how many of us adults try to pretend to have all the answers, for our children’s sake, or for the sake of coworkers, or maybe even for our own sake. We want people to like us, maybe even worship us, believing that we are not weak. We are strong. Like little lying Gods. Pretending that we know so much. Pretending we feel no shame. Pretending we make no mistakes. Pretending we are completely sure of the future.

Let’s tell the truth.

We are humans who do not know what tomorrow looks like. We don't know if we will be diagnosed with an illness this week, or if our hearts will stop before we finish reading these words. We do not know if a member of our family will do something horrible tomorrow, or if a car will collide with ours when we drive to the grocery store. We do not know if even the next second will come.

So that is what I explained to my boy.

Faith is in the admitting all that we do not know. Faith is in the believing that there is some great One who is taking care of us, who has our backs, who will continue to care for us for eternity. We don't need to know the details. Because, whether we like it or not, we have already accepted the fact that we don’t know what tomorrow will look like. We simply have faith that it will come. That the sun will rise.

Deep, huh?

I can think this way right now because I have to face the fact that I know very little about my future.

We pulled our oldest son out of school because it simply wasn’t working for him. So we don’t know where he will be next year. We have been talking about many plans, including taking a year off and traveling across the country homeschooling (and have decided that this would look good on a blog, but would torture part of our family. So we will not go this route.)

My husband has quit his job, so we do not know where our income source will come from in the next year. We don’t know what our “standard of living” actually is.

And, due to the last item, we are putting our house on the market, so if our house sells, we do not know where we will be living next.

Where does this leave me?

Living. That's where. Living with a faith that is growing as quickly as the clouds float by my desk. Living keenly aware that everything I have is guaranteed to be here only for this moment. And so I need to grab it, hold it, cherish it, and move on to the next second that, once again, is a miraculous gift. I cannot predict where the next blip of air will come from. I cannot possibly say who the next reader of this blog post will be. I will not try to pretend I know how my words will affect one single heart.

I am certain of only one thing— this moment.  In it, I hear my own soft breath mixed with raindrops from outdoors, and I smell the warm oniony soup simmering in the kitchen. I feel the rubbery surface of the chair beneath me and the tap of the keys under my fingers. And I feel hope. Hope that the words that I type may reach another soul who can taste them, drink them, and reach them forward, mixed with her own ideas, to share. Share honestly. Listen.

Maybe faith comes with admitting to knowing little. Perhaps God needs you and me to have the tender heart of a child, willing to wonder in the dark, so that he can speak to us. Maybe strength comes from admitting weakness. And teaching only happens when we can become the pupil alongside of our children. When we share the journey with them.

I am thankful for this moment on the page, in my chair, sharing my thoughts, and for experiences and words that may have possibly connected you to me.