Exactly one minute ago, my oldest son was learning to drive — according to Mom-Time, that is. Now here we are, cruising the back roads of Surreal-ville, as my third son has found his way behind a wheel. These are the moments when I sigh in solidarity with Dr. Seuss: How did it get so late so soon?
Oh, how far the Lord and I have come.
Back in the early years of surrendering a driver to the roads, any notion of relaxation before my child returned was a fancy of futility. I longed for bygone days when I could see my children’s faces in the rearview mirror as I drove them everywhere their sweet feet needed to be.
But once upon an ordinary Thursday while awaiting my son’s return (in full-on anxious mom mode — and why didn’t he text me when he got there, anyway?), the Lord interrupted my nerves, etching a tender truth on my peace-parched heart.
Sweet Daughter, His whisper cut through the noise, it’s not you who’s been protecting them. From the swaddled womb to the steering wheel, all along it’s been Me.
And in the newfound calm of that moment, tears and chains began to fall.
While I’d tried to control their safety with my worry (Lord, forgive), He’d been holding their lives in His palm, giving His angels charge over these children of mine … children of His.
That day, God granted wings to my worry-worn soul, shattering longstanding chains that bound my psyche to the lie that panic provides protection.