Letting Go of Some of the Mother in Me
The best thing about childhood, for me, was the liberty. Which is kind of ironic, considering it's the most structured and rule-oriented period in most lives- and certainly in my life. But looking back, receiving gradual degrees of independence was almost like slowly coming under a plague; it was more than my immaturity new what to do with. I was better off in college, having been cut completely loose of all authority, than I was in middle school and high school, when the reigns were merely loosened. But I think the reason liberty was such a reality in childhood was because the rules gave so much security there wasn't a need for anxiety or worry; with authority came perfect peace... or pretty close to perfect in a fallen world.
Makes perfect sense, then, when Beth Moore says this in Breaking Free:
Peace comes in situations completely surrendered to the sovereign authority of Christ. Sometimes when we give up trying to figure out all the answers to the "why's" in our lives and decide to trust a sovereign God, unexpected peace washes over us like summer rain... liberty and authority will always go hand in hand... obedience is the key to making liberty in Christ a reality in life.
We have to learn obedience all over again, acknowledge and fear the law He gives us, and harbor a deep devotion and love for Him who loves and oversees our behavior and lives in order to regain this liberty once again. Lord Jesus, may my kids learn this lesson and know true freedom always.
My favorite memories of enjoying life as a child, with a strong sense of reckless abandonment include playing with earthworms in mud puddles after a rain, running the old roads of our neighborhood barefoot, doing cartwheels after church through the grass with my dress over my head and shredded stockings, climbing the magnolia tree in the Keeton's front yard, our tanned Summer legs dangling from its branches, and singing made-up songs at the top of my lungs as I swung high into the blueberry sky above our swing set.
The lake house we grew up at was filled with added freedom unheard of in an increasingly frightening world of kidnappings and car accidents. The open water was considered a safe place to let us roam... and we did in a small fishing boat by trolling motor and later on jet skis, exploring the small island for Native American artifacts- everything from human teeth to shark teeth could be found in the ancient soils and marshes of that land.
At night we'd go shining for alligators with a spotlight and frozen Hershey bars, in search of reflecting red eyes. Dad once caught a baby gator and we kept it for a while in a tin wash-bin that was normally used for rinsing our feet before entering the house. My dad and his friends used to shoot the big ones and weight them to the bottom of the lake as it was illegal. One of his friends played a prank on him by taking a carcass and placing it to look as if it were climbing up our dock ladder- only we were out of town for weeks and never saw it until rumors came our way. By the time my dad removed it there was a dark, outlined stain of rotten gator right there on our dock, like the chalk-outline at a murder scene.
Our neighbors at the lake had an old canal running through their beach as I remember, and were always trying to fill it with sand or mud of one kind of another, to make a suitable swimming area. One attempt involved a base layer of something like pottery clay in texture, only orange in color. As Honey I Shrunk the Kids was one of our favorite movies at the time, we saw it only fit to act out the slimy mud scene from the film right there on their shore... over and over again. We'd run and fall and pull each other out and sink in it as though it were quick sand until we were completely coated head to toe- hair, face, and only our eyes blinking out bright white. Then it was down the dock with Indian cries- many yards we'd have to run, to gather speed and anticipate the baptism ahead... a baptism so sweet you're at a loss not to have experienced; feet plunging into the black water, the mud caking and lifting away, your hair flowing free again, your skin feeling new, as though you'd shed the old one like a snake, like a cocoon.
My grandfather, Jack, baptized me in the Atlantic Ocean off Crescent beach just a few Summers ago, as I'd never had more than an infant baptism, but the child in me wishes we could have run like Native Americans, covered in mud, screaming, and plunging into the purity that is ours for the taking. I needed to feel that dirt roll away like the stone at the tomb. And I prayed that God would let me know He was there, on the salty beach with us, even though I couldn't feel His presence. And is He faithful- yes- because as we walked up from the water together, Jack looked down and asked if I felt His presence. I shook my head, near tears, and he said, "Well He's here whether you feel Him or not," in a warm tone that melted away the chill of the wind.
All of these reveries bring me to yesterday, when the kids and I walked to our apartment office to drop off rent. It was warmer than I'd realized and the pool was sparkling, beckoning Evan. They were in their clothes but the child in me said it would only be more fun that way... and besides, there was a mountain of laundry awaiting me at home already. So out we went, to the steps of the pool where they splashed and blew bubbles and kicked freely beneath the cloudless blue sky. And when we walked back home, Evan then shirtless with dripping shorts and sopping sandals, he found the infamous "perfect stick." It slowed him down- the stick- as he made boy noises and waved it around, and when he ran to catch up to us the mother in me flinched at the thought of him falling and impaling himself or poking out an eye... but then Something in me said, he's a wet boy with his stick and he'll only be that once. Let him.
Because quite possibly, like his mother, he'll need to remember what it felt like when he's in search of it again one day.
