I'm leaving in a 12 passenger van, don't know when I'll be back again (next Saturday)

One of the hazards of the job that is youth ministry is the student mission trip.  Pretty much every leader of the youths takes their kids in one or many 12 passenger vans to some location to serve those in need. And I am no exception.  Today I embark on such a trip.  Tommy and I, along with my rock star volunteer leader Liz (St. Liz as she is known in my heart), will take 11 high school students to Omaha to do home repair and general merry making for the fine people of Nebraska.  It's 7 nights, 8 days of together time with my favorite students.

I've been dreading it for weeks.

I haven't been on one of these trips in two years.  Last year I had a newborn and leaving for a week was out of the cards.  I remember dreading it two years ago.  Dreading the week of camp songs and early morning wake ups.  Dreading the ice breakers and sleeping on air mattresses.  Most of all dreading leaving my then 13 month old Monster for a whole week.  I also remember being surprised by how much fun I had.  How nice it was to have uninterrupted, undistracted time with my students.  How great of an experience it was.

You would think, this time around, I would be able to rest on those positive feelings.  The fun, the great, the happy.  For whatever reason I'm still just dreading.

I think it's because Monster is a little older and more aware of what's going on.  I know that he'll understand that we're gone, but not necessarily that we're coming back soon.  He'll feel the stress and anxiety of separation but not the comfort of "they'll be home in 5 more days, 3 more days, tomorrow!"  Toots is still at that age where she's pretty much fine as long as there is an adult in the room that loves her.  But my best boy... he's in a harder spot.  Add to that the shaky potty training status we've achieved and the fact that despite my difficult to make request he is starting back up at school after a two week break with a new teacher.   I'm pretty much a disaster over here.

I'm typing up this post on the quick to ask for your prayers for my family if you are the praying type.  Pray for my kiddos.  Pray that they'll feel safe and secure and that the week will fly by.  Pray for Monster as he starts with a new teacher on Monday.  Pray that he doesn't poop his pants at school (it's a legitimate concern).  Pray for my amazing parents as they juggle the two beasts I've birthed.  And pray for Tommy and I.  That we would be present and connected to our students.  That we would enjoy the uninterrupted, undistracted time.  That it would be worth leaving our kids for a week.  And that we would get home safe to these sweet faces.

Thanks pals.  Be well this week.

On Mothers

Moving back in with my parents a few years after becoming a parent myself was not really in my master plan.  I prided myself on never having moved home after college.  Two weeks after graduation I packed my suitcases and moved to the big apple never again to claim my childhood home’s address as my own again.  Well, until now that is.  Twelve years after leaving for college, one husband and two kids later, I’m back in the room of my teenage years.  Well played God, well played.

Inevitably this move comes with some tension, some awkwardness, some growing pains.  I find myself reverting to ways of interacting with my parents that I haven’t employed for years.  It is normal, I’ve been told, to fall back on these familiar patterns of living with those who raised you.

Most days I cook dinner for everyone.  Cooking dinner is causing a large amount of anxiety in me.  Suddenly every night feels like a high stakes dinner party.  Before moving in with my parents my culinary feats were consumed by Toots, who eats everything you put in front of her, Monster, who only eats one big meal every three days and employs no rhyme or reason to what he will and won’t eat on a particular day, and Tommy who eats pretty much everything and will make a frozen pizza for second dinner if necessary.  Low stakes at their finest here.  Now I’m cooking for people more finely tuned palates and I’m terrified.  (Perhaps I need to go back and read my own advice…)

A few weeks ago, as I prepared dinner for us all, I found myself battling the insecurity and anxiety that accompanies the five-o-clock hour now.  My dad asked me a pretty innocent question about how I was preparing the meal.  I responded with a flustered, anxiety ridden half answer followed by “that’s-probably-not-a-good-idea-what-do-you-think-I-should-do-and-how-do-you-usually-make-this?!”

My mother, calmly and encouragingly said, “that sounds great.  Do it how you would normally cook it.  It’ll be great.”  It was a simple, motherly statement, infusing confidence into her (grown) daughter.  I’m sure my mother has been saying things like this to me my whole life, but in that instance I truly saw it for what it was.  I recognized that tone, the loving patience.  It is the same voice and inflection I use with Monster as his little hands work to manipulate scissors and Toots as her body struggles to string steps together into bona fide walking.  They are the voice and words of a mother trying to help her baby take clumsy, awkward steps towards self-confidence and blessed assuredness.

And there she was, her baby now 30 years old, my mother still mothering.  My mother could still recognize my insecurity and parented the best way she knew how… towards self-confidence and blessed assuredness.

We never really stop being mothers do we?  It’s strangely comforting this thought.  To all the mothers out there, from those who’ve been at this game for decades to those who are snuggling fresh new babes and all those in between, happy day.  Thanks for mothering the best way you know how, and for never truly stopping.