The Mother-Ache of God

The more I press into intimacy with God, 
the more I realize how much I have to un-learn.

Little by little, joy by joy, sorrow by sorrow, 
He re-teaches me Who He is.

A Mother's Day Reflection During A Pandemic.

We arrive on the front lawn of our daughter's house before the grandkids return from their walk.

It's one of those teaser Saturdays we've had in April, when you think maybe spring has actually arrived.  Those have been the easier days for outside, distanced visits, the kind we're doing now while we wait for it to be safe to hug each other.

It doesn't take them long to show up, coming down the street all shiny and waving.  Abby runs ahead, remembering to forgo her usually affectionate greeting and plopping herself down on the step instead.  Her face is flushed with energy and brightness.  I marvel again that this stunning young woman is in any way part of me.  I want to hug her but I tell her how much I love her, and that like her dress.

Zachary is a bit behind, all tall and needing a haircut, and being a careful big brother to bring Jayden up and around the parked van on the other side of the driveway.  Jayden has been waving and laughing and kicking his feet in the stroller since spotting us, and I am very aware of feeling oh so validated because of it.  Always, it makes me want to be the person he seems to think I am.

So when Zachary unbuckles him, Jayden breaks free of all that was holding his love back up until now.  He comes roaring around the front of the van, running with wide eyes and full-of-joy grin, as if to jump into my arms in an enthusiastic, mighty-three-year-old hug.





And in this moment, there is in me a horrific collision of delight and anguish.

(Pause, to push it away from my memory.)

You know, mostly I'm actually doing pretty okay with the little that's required of me during such a demanding time for so many.  All I have to do is stay home and stay safe.  Life is weird yes.  There's too much news, yes.  Technology is all love/hate for me right now, yes.  But mostly, I have everything to be grateful for and little to gripe about, all things considered.

Except this.

This bit about the grandkids, about staying separate as households, about staying two meters apart, about no hugging.  This.  Is.  Not.  Okay.  And it's getting more and more not okay as the weeks drag on.

My gramma-heart is hungry and restless and very sad.  Very sad.  All twisted and angry-sad.  Even before the happy charge across the lawn, I am aching for that three year old's arms around my neck, his giggle in my ears, his precious, sweaty little self all pressed up against my heart.

And on this sunny Saturday, he comes charging straight to me.  And when everything inside of me is moving toward him with the huge force of gramma-love, I have to back away.  I have to.   I force myself to put up my hands and tell him 'no'.

He turns away to run to Mom instead, crying and confused.  So do I turn around, and walk the other way.  We're both crying.  It takes me several minutes to compose myself.

Wretched longing unfulfilled.  Strong and awful and sickening.

All this happens two weeks ago.

By now I've been over to visit like this enough times that -- and this is worse, almost too awful to say -- Jayden is now "trained" to keep his distance from Gramma.  I sit in the sunshine approximately spaced from the chair he and his Mom snuggle into, and -- this chokes out of me -- he won't come near me.

Unspeakable longing.

I ache for the big kids too, all four of them, including Harvest.  Including our new baby whose kicks I have yet to know  We're a hugging, touching family, and we've been through a lot together, and there's so much more to say than words can muster, even on the good days.   And right now I'm feeling all needy and desperate to know the sweet presence of their love like that.  To love them like that.  Without restriction.

Unbelievably wretched.

(Pause, to catch my breath and look away, and feel it.)

Where else to take all this but to the lap of God?

Several years ago, I learned a prayer to myself, (that sounds awkward but that's how it was) that was badly needed in other times of longing.  It goes like this:

"Lord, turn all my longings into longings for You."

It captures the ache of unfilled desire and directs it to the only One who has enough capacity to bear it with me.

"Lord, this longing is too much."

He whispers, "I know."

It comes to mind that time when Jesus, heading to His own excruciating act of love, looked out over a city representing all God's children and spoke this torn lament.

"Oh Jerusalem!  

How often I have longed to gather your children together, 

as a mother hen gathers her chicks under her wings, 

and you were not willing."

Matthew 23:37

God as Mother, longing to hold us.

With such longings heavy in my own chest
I am that child now
in a mystic circle of longing and love.

I keep un-learning that God is an angry father.
I keep un-learning that God is a father impossible to please.
I keep un-learning that God is distant and unknowable and prefers it that way.
She's not.

She longs for me with all the longing I now long for my grandkids.

I know, I hope, that soon restrictions will be lifted.  Bubbles can be widened.  Arms can wrap around beloveds without fear and anxiety.  I wait for that day with growing impatience but unfailing hope.

So meanwhile, right now,
I am mystified and grateful
to climb into the lap of God,
and share our longings with one another,
and wait in the waiting, together.