We shared the booklet with the song lyrics. He kept leaning slightly into my elbow. “Are you okay, mom?” What gave me away? Was it the snort-sniffles? The splashes of tears onto the page? The little up-down of my chest even in the darkened chapel? Our time at an archdiocesan worship and adoration session was coming to an end. “I’m fine, sweetie,” I murmured. But I wasn’t.
We shuffled-raced to the car in the nipping bitter cold, his long legs beating mine out soundly. I yelped as I jumped in, “TURN ON THE HEAT!” as our Minnesota winter had rounded back after a warm spell. It hadn’t forgotten how to winter, but we had. As I pulled out onto the boulevard, I sniffed one last time and wiped my face in one final sweep.
“Mom, why do you cry when you sing at church? You do it, like, all the time.”
What could be called the gift of tears was really something else for me. I paused, thought of the answer I’d give my younger kids, something vague about my heart being moved, and then move it right along. But as his emotional intelligence crew along with his shoe size and appetite, I decided to give a more depthful answer. “My heart is extra open at church so it’s a place I let my tears out. And singing praise and worship songs are associated with lots of friendships that I don’t really have anymore.”
The car warmed up; we drove toward home; and his hand reached over and pressed against my arm the remainder of the drive. My heart opens so he can learn to let his open, too.
+ + +
I think of all the times I asked my parents about things, or the reason why, or just how things were. Why didn’t we see that relative? Why didn’t we talk about this part of the past? What was so bad about so-and-so? And sometimes I got answers and sometimes I got grown-up-speak. Something to the effect of “It’s not for kids” or “You’ll understand later” (there never was a later) or “That’s a grown-up answer not for you.”
I get it, I really do. Some stories aren’t ours to share. Some people have cut themselves out of our lives due to bad, unhealthy, or harmful decisions. And some things are just not for kids or teens.
But now I’m bridging my own gap here. What is for a teenager? And not just which movies are okay, or which topics need to be broached about the big wide world out there (though these are bridge we’re leaping into and over as well). But questions like: How much do I share about my current life? How much do I share about what God does with my heart each and every day, shaping and making it more like His own?
How much do we explain about what we’re living while we’re living it?
Our son has faced his own friendship troubles, navigating this kid’s insecurities while discovering his own. He’s felt the sting of being left out and the lift of including others. He processes externally a bit, giving me the chance to listen and provide greater context for a frustration or an invitation to put love where there (seems to be) is none.
But what of our own stories? The ones they witness while we’re talking in the kitchen while they stack plates, finish geometry assignments, toss a football (guys, NOT IN THE HOUSE). The ones they catch fragments of, or witness tears to, but don’t really understand?
That night was a chance to explain that friendships change and the change can be gutting at times. And that God is in it all. Not in an ambivalent witness, but One whose heart is pierced whenever ours is. So I did peel back a bit of my heart, not just to teach by words but by example. A broken heart remains broken until it is washed and absorbed into the open wound in Christ’s side. Keeping my sadness to myself prohibits healing. And He wants deeper and deeper healing for me, even into all eternity.
+ + +
What wound are you protecting, thinking it will heal under your bandages, your careful concealed tears, your controlled care?
It cannot heal until it is given to Him, not once, but as many times as it takes to soak it into His own heart. As many times as it takes to allow yourself to experience the pain, to not hide from it, and to give it over. To live in the sharpness of it, to know He lives in that space right inside you as well.
Consider Lent coming up as a time to undress your bandages, remove your covers, unbind your wounds, scabs, and scars. Let God see you. Let Him love you. Let Him live inside you until you’re transformed into His love.
Happy Ash Wednesday this week! I’ll have weekly essays during Lent on Saturdays, just to keep in closer touch with you guys. I’m praying with and for you. Thanks for your prayers.
Love,
Nell
ps. Did you see my recent article for Word on Fire about kids in church? It was kinda born from this incident.
Somewhere I read "Let Jesus touch your wounds this Lent." OOF. So convicting.
💕 you're doing a wonderful job this far.