This kid, who has had just months of trials, who wears his
heart on his sleeve but in a yard in every direction around him, exposed to the
wide world. Morg who – would throw himself into anything that interests him,
but maybe not. Maybe now, after years of trying to figure out which way the
fluttering twist of ribbon tied to a string, showing him the direction he is
meant to go, right in that second, I can see it.
“I guess it’s going to happen,” he softly explains, holding the
screen near my eyes. I read his report card when we stop and he shows me how he
has two F’s that he changed to C’s. I know that it is uncomfortable for him to
talk about his graduation from high school. He keeps talking, my stomach and my
heart are making plans to exit the car as soon as possible. He considers his
words, showing his grades, and his tone has morphed into a supportive warmth,
like he is holding my hand in his as a wordless assist and comfort. “I could
have done better,” he says as he pulls up his list of 6 missing assignments, “I
was just being a slacker.” There’s an ache in my ribs, flinching with every
word he speaks, biting hard every time another tear drops down my face. “I feel
like that is a hard thing for people to admit,” I reassure him while pulling
him in for a wet kiss on his cheek.
Who am I to tell him that forgiveness is the next step?
Actually, who am I not to? If I’m trying to live my life as a disciple of
Christ, to willingly choose to have faith in wholeness in the middle of injury
and destruction, to share my belief and understanding of courage and gratitude,
there is no way that I can stop now. I tell him about the quote I read recently
that basically said ‘Forgiveness is the giving up of all hopes for a better
past’. Forgiveness is hard, I’m not going to lie. But if you try to, it’s a
huge weight off you. Off your heart and your head and your thoughts.
“I love you. And I am so proud of you sweetie.” Another hug
and I get wearily out of the car. Into a hockey net, a baseball bag and a roll
of hockey tape obviously left over from re-taping a stick the night before. I
tell him he has to pick up his cap and gown after school Wednesday, to which he
agrees and asks if he can have a ride to Chance’s house. Negotiations ensue
regarding emptying the dish washer and a question about his work schedule. We’re
back to our regular lives and conversations, even as the sweat and tears dry on
our necks.
It wasn’t a planned conversation, but that is the thing with
parenting: sometimes [read, ‘usually’] the conversation arises when you’re not
expecting it and putting it off just isn’t an option. So you sigh, and follow
it. I lean over and kiss Morg again. “I love you” I remind him, as he throws an
arm around my neck and pulls me in for a long hug. “I love you Mom.” I watch as
a smile rolls over his face upwards towards his eyes.
Giving up attachment. This is a concept that, for me, is so uncomfortable and I have to tell you that it still is for a lot of people I think, but it’s not impossible. I get better and better at it with time and practice. The moments when I can detach myself from all things (and that doesn’t mean I give up my love for them – because love and attachment have nothing to do with one another.) Attachment comes from a place of fear, while love, well, real love anyways is pure, kind, and selfless; where there is love there can’t be fear, and because of that, attachment and love cannot co-exist and that is when I get uncomfortable. I become so peaceful, so tolerant, so kind, and so serene. I try to get to a place where I will be able to understand all things without even trying. A state beyond words. Haven't quite made it there yet, that's what makes it uncomfortable - like a yoga pose. That you have to keep breathing through. It's hard. Parenting is hard. But that's what makes it worth it.
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| Field Day |
