Erin's Motherhood Post

I had a moment recently. A senior moment. Not the AARP kind, I'm not quite there yet. The other kind of “senior.” The cap and gown kind. One day, with my oldest about to graduate, I started to feel my arms ache. 

Quite a phenomenon. There I was, thinking through the decisions and joys of her next adventure, and it was as if my soul ran into my arms, and looked for something that was no longer there, my baby. 

I pushed away the tears. 

Save it, I thought. No use crying yet. She is still right here, close enough to touch. 

A few weeks later, in the midst of senior planning, my husband said so innocently, bless his heart, “I just read the other day that 90% of the time spent with your kids is over by the time they graduate.” <Proverbial dagger to the heart>

Worst. Timing. Ever. 

My soul moved again to my hands that cupped that little face, that changed diapers, and played with Barbies. And they ached for something I couldn’t retrieve. Time. 

The tears came, and I felt foolish again. There was so much to be excited about. So much to be proud of. But even in the midst of celebration, transitions carry grief. 

So this time I gave myself permission. 

And if you’re watching babies and people you love grow so fast and you feel a loss, then here’s your permission to grieve what was and celebrate who they are now. 

I needed permission when the truth of the transition hit again. And, so, at 1 a.m. on a Friday, I didn't push past it. As I replayed the years, regret and longing found me. In response, I felt the Lord prompting questions in my heart, to expose my hidden fears and remind me that this little girl wasn’t ever alone, and never will be because he is the Lord her  God, and He is with her wherever she goes.  

I began to speak to Him about it with a new revelation that I knew but never realized, “You’re not just with me, You’re with my baby too. That’s where I would most want You to be, with her. Yet so often I thought You were with me and I was with her. I was Your hands and feet. I thought this whole time I was in charge, steering the ship, aligning the things, but there You are moving on her behalf too, for both of us at the same time. Sometimes I really blew the assignment. But You being there for both of us, that’s a love and mercy I think I’m only beginning to understand."

Then I felt Him speak to my spirit: What if the things you’ve been waiting for weren't about you as much as they were about her, because I didn’t want her to get too comfortable, and I didn't want you to move too fast. You wanted her to be comfortable and confident, but I wanted her and you to learn patience. Would you still regret the waiting seasons?

No.

What if your bad decision was Me showing her that I’ve got her even when you don’t? Would you still go back and try to fix it, try to be the perfect parent, or would you let Me be?

I would let you be. 

What if your love for her pales in comparison to My love for her? Would you surrender her and trust Me with her future? 

Yes. 

What if it was all for My glory? All of your laughter, tears, late nights, doubts, fears, on your knees, fighting for your kid, was all to reveal to you and her who I Am. Would it be worth it?

Yes. 

You’re a good mom. You've been the best mom for her. That’s why I picked you. No one could’ve loved her better than you for all these years. And if you didn’t love her so much, you wouldn’t be so devastated and yet so proud to watch her go. 

Would you do it again? 

100 times over. Yes. 

Her story is mine. I know you’re afraid of what comes next, but don’t worry, I've got her and you. I'm big enough. Your heart won’t shrink back to where it was before she arrived. It will continue to expand if you let me breathe into it.

Yes, there is grief in the transition at the same time as celebration. 

You can hold both, mama. You can be grateful for the season you had, and devastated that it’s over. 

You can be full of sorrow and joy. 

It’s part of the human experience–it’s what AI can’t do–feel. That’s something I’ve given you. 

And, on that Friday night at 1 a.m., that’s what I needed to give myself permission to do. Feel it. Play the slideshow. 

Remember what those early days felt like, when time stood still as you held your firstborn in your arms for the first time.

Remember what it was like to watch her sleep, wondering how you could stare at someone for so long. 

Remember the firsts and the lasts. 

Remember who you thought she was, and who you’re still discovering her to be. 

Let it all linger. The projects, the talks, the vacations, the schoolwork, the rocking chairs, the holidays, the mundane and ordinary, the dolls, Legos, and the imagination. It was such holy work. And 90% of that might be over. 

And it’s okay if that wrecks you for a minute. Cry your tears. Hold your people. Take your time. It’s all we have. He created the seasons of life. He loves His children just like you do. He wept, too.

And when you're done, He will still be there. With you. With them. And He always will be.

~Erin Arruda, Worthy Founder