The head lights flash on our little “happy home” as we pull into our lane.
The first night of tent meetings is over, and Tirzah is already out,
her head slumped against the side of her carseat.
But Weston’s voice breaks the silence.
“But Mommy, I don’t want you to go to Guatemala!”
I hear tears creeping into his voice.
“Honey, it’s Pennsylvania, not Guatemala. And its only for three nights!”
I try to make it sound short, but to this little guy,
who spends most of his awake moments with me,
a separation spanning days is vast.
“But…” and the tears conquer.
A wail escapes his throat and I reach back over the console.
He leans forward and in a minute,
I’m cradling this long, almost five year old boy in my arms.
His face buried in my jacket with muffled deep heart wrenching sobs filling the air.
My buddy isn’t a cry baby. In fact, he is all boy. Rough and tumble.
But there is this deep tenderness that runs through his heart
and every once in a while something strikes that chord
and I see his eyes swimming in an ocean of tears.
Like the day that he discovered that his beloved playmate
has an older brother in heaven, named Justin. That Justin died.
I saw the lump grow in his throat. I saw him gulp.
But I have this trip. And I’ve been looking forward to it fiercely.
It’s a woman’s blogging conference and my sister and I are going to go together
and have girl time and get all kinds of vital pointers for our blogs…
But all Weston hears is that I am leaving. And that is all that he cares about.
Guatemala, Pennsylvania, there is no difference to him.
Cause I am going to be away from him.
And I can’t even change my mind and decide to stay.
My admission is paid for, the hotel reserved.
My two kiddos will have to go to bed without me tucking them in for three nights in a row.
But I’m pausing this morning. And I’m wanting to listen.
‘Cause this is big to him. Really big.
It’s one of those moments that would be so easy to brush past,
and in my excitement over the weekend, fail to see how big it feels to him.
To trample this teaching moment.
I’ll prolly come up with a special surprise for the kids each day.
A way to pass each day with some excitement.
Some activity that is rare. A date with Tia here, a party with Daddy there.
But really, only God can help me guide this little heart to learn to trust HIM.
This is a moment worth grasping, and listening ever so quietly
to what God wants to teach my child.
Through the hardness, through my leaving, through his tears,
there is something worthwhile.
All the sudden I am crying.
Cause I see that I too feel incapable at times.
In the face of something big, I say, “God, I can’t!”
And I feel Weston’s helplessness.
And God’s heart of understanding, yet seeing the bigger picture.
I blink back tears, and hold my little big boy closer.
And I understand.