The Sea

Tomorrow I send my firstborn daughter off to school. Kindergarten. And I am feeling it so deep in my gut. Here's the funny thing: I wasn't going to be this parent. I wasn't going to be the mom, holding her daughter's blanket in the middle of the day just to smell her sweet scent and remember the baby in her. I wasn't going to be the mom who wept when she dropped her child off in the tiled classroom decorated with owls and primary colors. I wasn't going to be the mom. Because... eye roll... come on, it is JUST KINDERGARTEN, right?

But I am not only THE MOM, I am here to let you know it is not "just kindergarten." It is everything and it is nothing. It is normal and it is so not normal. A big start and a huge end. It is learning new things and trusting in the investment of old learning. An embracing and a letting go.

The other night I went to peek at the girls before I crawled in bed myself-- a dangerous game of Russian Roulette [PLEASE DON'T WAKE UP WHEN THE FLOOR CREAKS!]. And there she was, my huge five year old, naked [of course] and cuddling her dolls and sleeping on her lunch bag. She looked so tall. Her hair I never thought would grow was so long. And yet when I zeroed in on her face I saw her-- my baby. Six pounds of fresh skin and body, a new soul I barely knew. Her blanket smelled like new, not like her.

One of my favorite poems is "On Turning Ten", by Billy Collins. In it he says he's "all the ages he's ever been." And as I stare at her, breathe her in, she is indeed the breathtaking newborn, the toddling one year old, the exploring two year old, the silly three year old, and the inquisitive four year old. And of course, the reality is she is also the beautiful, joyful, bursting to learn five year old before me, on the precipice of Kindergarten. She is all the ages. And I am sending all of them into that school building tomorrow.

I have never been awesome with change. I'm actually quite terrible with it. I will probably die with the same haircut I have now for this very reason. And yet, here we go: change.

I am 31. [I know! I am as shocked as you are!] And I have lived enough life to at least realize that change does not equal bad anymore than good equals staying the same. Actually, if I've learned anything it's that quite often Jesus calls us to change so that we can step out of the boat and experience far more good and abundance that we could experience inside of it. We won't know we can walk on water until we leave our comfort zones and try. 

But this change isn't solely about me [though, oh Lordy, will I grow too!]. It is about sending that little girl, in whose face I still see all the ages she's ever been, into a world that I know is quite busted and broken. I've had the immense pleasure and joy of getting to be home with her for five years, and hear this: I am my very own personal brand of bustedness. Don't we know. But I also knew she was mainly safe, what was being input, and that Jesus' name was on the tips of our tongues throughout our days. I got to be there when she failed. I got to be there when she experienced something spectacularly new and awesome. And now I have to send her out of the boat.


The other day she was singing one of her current favorites in the backseat: "You split the sea so I could walk right through it! My fears are drowned in perfect love! I'm no longer a slave to fear. I am a child of God."  And I fought back the tears that have come more easily to my eyes these days. And I remembered: Jesus is not just in our home. He is there. And Blythe is His child. And He will split the sea so she can walk right through it, even if I might prefer she never have to face the sea to begin with.

I know this next season of change will grow into our normal. But for now, please give me a minute because trust me, it is not just kindergarten.