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| This was our last view of Hannah as we prepared to leave BFA: with her friends, making new friends, going together into a new adventure. I'm still at the stage where I cry every time I see this picture, but it is such solace to me. |
You knew, of course, that I would eventually write about Hannah's leaving. I knew I would, too, but I didn't know exactly what it would look like, what angle I would approach it from, what I would have to say. Hence, I waited until the leaving was done, because the leaving was pretty terrible. Terrible for me--not for her. She struggled to leave us, and especially to leave her brother, but she wasn't really leaving--she was going. Not running from one thing, but to another. And there is a lot of happiness in that, isn't there? And so, now that we are back from Germany, now that she is somewhat settled, now that we have talked to her and know how things are going, now I can write about it. But to be honest, it's a different view than I thought it would be.
Have you ever had to eat your words? I have. Lots of times. When we were engaged, and my sisters' children were five little stairsteps of crazy and chaos, running around like mad people (they all turned out great, but it was really loud there for a while), I can remember saying to Marc, "Our kids won't act like that." Yeah. I was that snotty, superior person--don't those always seem to be people without kids? Of course, I had kids, and they were exactly like that--sweet, wonderful, but also completely nuts. Loud didn't even begin to describe our lives when John entered into the mix. LOUD. CHAOS. Of course, by then my nieces and nephews were teenagers, and they rolled their eyes (probably) and said to themselves, "My kids will never act that way." And my sisters, much to their credit, never said a word, because they are two of the classiest, kindest people on earth. But I had to eat my words.
I also said, "I could never be a missionary." You see how that turned out. I've also had lots of people--even very close friends--who have said, "I could never do what you do." And my response is always the same: if God called you to it, you absolutely could. We aren't the super-saved. We don't especially adore sacrifice. We just heard clear direction from God, and we said, 'yes.' (Okay, at first we said, "What? Have You met us?!?!" But then we said, 'Yes.') And there are a thousand more examples of words I've had to eat--classes I would never teach (but did), situations I would never put myself or my family in (but did), things I would absolutely never do (but absolutely ended up doing).
And then there came a stage where we decided not to say never, because sometimes that seemed like an invitation to God to have us do exactly that. That's pretty crummy theology, isn't it? First of all, my use of a word or non-use of it doesn't direct the hand of the Almighty. Silliness. And we said it always as a joke, but underneath, I think there was a sense of not wanting to end up doing something we didn't want to do. I feel ridiculous even typing that, because really--our theology is better than that. It's just something that kind of crept into our lives without us paying attention to it.
Then, of course, there is the "I could never send my kid to a boarding school. I simply could not do it. Never." Since I just dropped my kid off at boarding school, you see how that went. Given a set of circumstances in which boarding school was not only clearly the best thing for her, but also clearly God's will for her, this particular 'never' is hard to eat. Not because I didn't want her to go to boarding school, though I honestly didn't. Not because I was embarrassed that we felt it was the right option, because I wasn't. But because of the arrogance that is implied in that 'never' and every other one I've said here. The sentence that starts, "I would never" really ends with "because I know best." And you know what? I so don't know best. I really don't. As if my plan--for my life, for my family, for my kids--is somehow far superior to God's plan for them. Even when that plan involves being in another country from me, even when that plan means being on a different continent than I am, even when that plan involves suffering on their part and mine (because when my kids suffer, I suffer)--His plan is always best. 100% of the time. He never fails. He is forever faithful in His love and mercy and compassion to me and mine and you and yours. I'm learning--even as I cry every time I go into her room--to place myself and my family in the palm of the Almighty. It means relinquishing control. It means admitting I don't know best. It means trusting Him with those most precious to me. It means believing that His lovingkindness endures forever and is unfailing and unwavering. I believe Him to be trustworthy, friends. I've tasted and seen His goodness. I trust Him, even when His plan doesn't look like mine.
It helps, of course, that she's happy. That our conversations are full of new friends and great teachers and funny stuff from the dorm. It helps that so, so many people have sent us messages, encouraging us, loving on us, holding us up. It helps that as we said goodbye, we were absolutely surrounded by people we love, colleagues from our organization, people who wrapped us in their arms, cried with us, checked on us, loved us. And it helps that we know our God loves our Nan far more than we are even capable of, and that we have the privilege of watching Him turn her into the woman He created her to be. And if that is not the most spectacular and wonderful part of parenting, I don't know what is. I love watching my kids grow into who they are made to be. Amazing. Daunting. Inspiring.
Wherever you are in the world, I pray that when your plan and God's plan don't match, you always choose God's plan, and that you are going for a walk in your beautiful neighborhood with your beloved this morning, too. Blessings to you and yours!
His,
Kellye
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