This is Tuesdays story. And yes its Wednesday.
It rings. Or vibrates. Or more likely its muted and I see there is a call. I reach for the lifeline in this life. Its red phone, its black box important. Its part of a multi-level communications plan that involves email, carrying life plans delivering the latest top level security updates.
She is Patton. I am MacArthur. This is war. This is their lives.
Red pen, push pins, tools in the battleplans laid out in the heart and mind. Marking the critical, identifying the hour by hour movement of troops. And we strategize. We move pieces around the map of life. The map of their lives on this night.
We momma warriors plan out how to keep them safe on this night of their lives. Point A to Point B movement is critical to safety and well-being. Its a jungle out there, these roads of life. Danger lurks. Hearts and bodies, fragile with youth, must naviagate through decisions, confusion, temptation, and dark night.
She tells me a story and I tell her one too, this co-general momma planner.
Our boys, one half a step from manhood, are tall, grown in stature and raised in this community of believers. My daughter, one year behind these sons growing into womanhood. These children linked up and doing life together. My son, her son such deep friendship carving out. My daughter, linked in friendship. These woven lives all threaded together in community of youth. We have much to steward. The flowers and shrimp for the battle night are distraction wrapped in details of the pre-battle party.
She goes first. Words paint story of three year old school kids off to the pool after three year old kindegarten. And she, plunges down in and swims with the playmates. She caring for a child for these hours, whose life she has been a participant in from before the beginning. She comes to the surface, all momma cleansed, her make-up and hair no longer as before. And he stares, my wide-eyed one, blue saucers, blue orbs piercing her in numbing confusion. He, always this recorder of events, never missing one. And always, always speaking out in raw truth.
And after long pregnant pause of childhood wonder, he asks what he questioned all along. Are you still Taylor’s momma. Change so subtle, wet haired momma swimmer now could be someone else. Now could be for mine a stranger in this pool.
She giggles and I belly laugh. This story of over a decade ago blurs time and space and races back and delivers simpler. Drops her in my lap, simple. The easy to explain. Of course I’m Taylors momma.
Its my turn now. Story rises up all warm, like white flour biscuit oven ready. Story hot out seeking open mouth to savor her and enjoy how sweet, all honey-covered she is.
Do you remember? Do you recall? The time my husband popped into your office eighteen years ago and you pointed him to Bethany Christian Services? His heart broken by my pain, and his, and ours. This battle with infertility. This pain of long wait for baby.He, seeking a God path out of the pain. Black tunnel life moments, the coming out seeing light.
And do you remember you were the one there on that day? He was a stranger. We were from somewhere else. This was before. Before we were drawn to this place. This was a beginning and you marked this community as one of Hope and Love.
And she, belly full of baby. Working at the church. She directing and moving push pin strategy plans of the heart, pointing toward hope, gently lead by the Spirit. Leading us to a place where family would grow out of and from. Where comfort and blessing and our adoption story would be birthed.
So story reminds of beginnings of friendships between boys. Hers on the way into her home in her warm ripe belly. She a directress of Hope and Encouragement. Ours, nine months later birthed through a precious life-giving birth mother who would lovingly release our cherished and prayed for one into my arms.
And now the warrior mothers plan and scheme of safe life travels on the night of Prom. Planning all Normandy Invasion, how to feed the troops, what tanks will carry these young people off into the night. How will they move from Point A to Point B to Point C. What happens when the enemy lurks on the highway, dark night covering their paths. How will they find their way home to us to the mothership? Dodging each obstacle in their path with skill, on their own in this night. Her son and my daughter, traveling companions on this jouney, paired up she with his best friend. And my middle off with another group.
This battle, this plan has dimension and depth that challenges a momma battle planner.But we have each other.
Whether mother or not.
We have community in life. Ones whose gifts come alongside and lend strength and comfort.
We have the other story-tellers who tell of their messy and their struggle. Who shine bright light on the you are not in this alone. Who tell of over-coming challenge, pain, grief, and disappointment. Who tell of times of rejoicing and flat out Joy. Who shout the Mercy times and the Grace times when just before they stumbled hard they were caught in Love. By community.
He wove this momma warrior back into my life. He weaves these threads of support in kind word tapestry. Ones who tell story of life where we see clearly He carried us. He fought that battle for us and with us. He prepared.
And we’ll release these young brave-hearts into this night and this life. Covered in His love, covered in prayer.
And the mothership will keep watch for safe return. Always longing for their return, from playdates in swimming pools and first prom nights.
And trips home from college.
This is not the end of the story. By no means is this the end of the story. Because its Wednesday’s story and Thursday, she will have one too.
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elizabeth w. marshall 