When this nearly 53 year old goes home to St. Louis to visit, I sometimes forget that I am not just an adult, beyond needing to receive parenting. Likewise, I would guess when my parents see me coming, similarly those emotions of protecting and guiding well up, but they straddle dance between the dos and don'ts. For us both, there's that quiet awkward unspoken pulse between caregiving and caretaking of one another.
And you would be so wrong if you thought this wasn't a beautiful mutual surrender to the places and positions we are in life.
How could I expect a parent that expressed a lifetime of love in so many ways could hold back? So many years of molding their love into the fabric of my life: cupping my face as a toddler to hold me still, swatting my bottom because I was so darn cute, teaching me to stand up straight (literally and figuratively), staring at me until I walked without dragging my shoes, reminding me to not pop my gum, checking my teeth for cavities with a flashlight, waking a tired student on the drive to high school, watching games in hot gymnasiums, paying for my schooling, walking me down the wedding aisle, sending flowers to my new home three hours away, sharing words of wisdom and encouragement in weary times, responding to all the words I write...
Who gets beyond loving like this? Who wants to? These are the ethereal moments when our lives and hearts are laid bare for another, no matter how quickly they are blotted over by the focus on the most tangible happenings.
And love etches the deepest in my heart in these simple but magical moments. It sounds like I'm a hopeless romantic. My dad has accused me of that, and I'm going to choose to believe it's so. I'm hoping I'm always seeing the big sentimental in the small practical. I don't want to miss the large love lived in the small tender parts of life.
A small moment that takes my breath away---don't we live for those, and don't we want to stranglehold never forget those? These tender moments catch my breath so quickly it seems that if I blink the next scene emerges before my very eyes, just like an unspoken dream is quickly forgotten.
So when this 53 year old adult child got a mild concussion on her last visit home, I wanted to minimize my pain, my needs. It wasn't until the following morning, my heart understood why my dad was adamant I stay up to watch Real Time With Bill Maher with him, which I did in deference to his wishes but little regard for his reasoning. Thankfully, my slow mind gathered it's heart binoculars the next day. My father walked into the kitchen with a picked daffodil from his garden, handing it to me expounding, "For my little girl, so it will make you feel better." Mom and I stared at one another surprised and speechless for a second. He PICKED a flower from his garden? He gave me a flower, not the usual joke that a picture of himself would be the best medicine. This speechless moment required words, and I etched out, "This may be the sweetest thing you have ever done for me." I knew that brief, breathless moment would hug my heart long, as I was reminded of another time he bought me flowers when he asked me to attend a work dance with him. These are the simple moments the heart doesn't forget.
There's that quiet awkward unspoken pulse between caregiving and caretaking of one another. And you would be so wrong if you thought this wasn't a beautiful mutual surrender to the places and positions we are in life.
That same morning, I heard the faint creak of light steps on the hardwood steps, someone climbing to my bedroom. Hearing those light creaks, I instantly recollected being checked up on as a sick young girl with pneumonia, fevered nights, meds and fluids in hand administered by a mom forehead checking, sitting, and waiting at my bedside. The heart beats just knowing someone is coming to care. The significance of being sought out was not lost on me. Her simple gesture was wrapped in elaborate love. I greeted my mom, "I'm awake. You don't have to be quiet." Her quickly poured words spoke anxiously, "How are you? I couldn't sleep. I worried all night." Did she know that her quiet climb soothed the heart making physical pain seem so secondary?
There's that quiet awkward unspoken pulse between caregiving and caretaking of one another. And you would be so wrong if you thought this wasn't a beautiful mutual surrender to the places and positions we are in life.
And you would be so wrong if you thought this wasn't a beautiful mutual surrender to the places and positions we are in life.
How could I expect a parent that expressed a lifetime of love in so many ways could hold back? So many years of molding their love into the fabric of my life: cupping my face as a toddler to hold me still, swatting my bottom because I was so darn cute, teaching me to stand up straight (literally and figuratively), staring at me until I walked without dragging my shoes, reminding me to not pop my gum, checking my teeth for cavities with a flashlight, waking a tired student on the drive to high school, watching games in hot gymnasiums, paying for my schooling, walking me down the wedding aisle, sending flowers to my new home three hours away, sharing words of wisdom and encouragement in weary times, responding to all the words I write...
Who gets beyond loving like this? Who wants to? These are the ethereal moments when our lives and hearts are laid bare for another, no matter how quickly they are blotted over by the focus on the most tangible happenings.
And love etches the deepest in my heart in these simple but magical moments. It sounds like I'm a hopeless romantic. My dad has accused me of that, and I'm going to choose to believe it's so. I'm hoping I'm always seeing the big sentimental in the small practical. I don't want to miss the large love lived in the small tender parts of life.
A small moment that takes my breath away---don't we live for those, and don't we want to stranglehold never forget those? These tender moments catch my breath so quickly it seems that if I blink the next scene emerges before my very eyes, just like an unspoken dream is quickly forgotten.
So when this 53 year old adult child got a mild concussion on her last visit home, I wanted to minimize my pain, my needs. It wasn't until the following morning, my heart understood why my dad was adamant I stay up to watch Real Time With Bill Maher with him, which I did in deference to his wishes but little regard for his reasoning. Thankfully, my slow mind gathered it's heart binoculars the next day. My father walked into the kitchen with a picked daffodil from his garden, handing it to me expounding, "For my little girl, so it will make you feel better." Mom and I stared at one another surprised and speechless for a second. He PICKED a flower from his garden? He gave me a flower, not the usual joke that a picture of himself would be the best medicine. This speechless moment required words, and I etched out, "This may be the sweetest thing you have ever done for me." I knew that brief, breathless moment would hug my heart long, as I was reminded of another time he bought me flowers when he asked me to attend a work dance with him. These are the simple moments the heart doesn't forget.There's that quiet awkward unspoken pulse between caregiving and caretaking of one another. And you would be so wrong if you thought this wasn't a beautiful mutual surrender to the places and positions we are in life.
That same morning, I heard the faint creak of light steps on the hardwood steps, someone climbing to my bedroom. Hearing those light creaks, I instantly recollected being checked up on as a sick young girl with pneumonia, fevered nights, meds and fluids in hand administered by a mom forehead checking, sitting, and waiting at my bedside. The heart beats just knowing someone is coming to care. The significance of being sought out was not lost on me. Her simple gesture was wrapped in elaborate love. I greeted my mom, "I'm awake. You don't have to be quiet." Her quickly poured words spoke anxiously, "How are you? I couldn't sleep. I worried all night." Did she know that her quiet climb soothed the heart making physical pain seem so secondary? There's that quiet awkward unspoken pulse between caregiving and caretaking of one another. And you would be so wrong if you thought this wasn't a beautiful mutual surrender to the places and positions we are in life.
I wonder if these moments might be a conspiracy to remind me to linger in mutual surrender to moments divinely created. I know these real life moments may be the only things I may have one day to touch or feel the presence of my parents.
Comments