A Letter to My Children

I am sitting outside of a coffeeshop while Matt takes the kids swimming.  It’s my first true “time away” by myself with a computer, my  music, and a few books.  And I’m sitting here wandering what I’m needing to hear whispered, what I’m needing to process about the last few months of chaos, what I’m needing to write.  And I stumbled across a beautiful post about motherhood by Sarah Markley {it’s worth your time–check it out}.  And a letter to my own three children is stirred . . .

Dear Kelty, Cade and Ava,

I am sorry.   I know that the past two months have not been easy or fun.  At all.  They’ve been filled with hard goodbyes– to grandparents that love you and aunts who adore you and friends that have always come to your birthday parties.  These past 60 days you’ve seen your toys disappear, along with the furniture in your rooms and the bikes in the garage.  You’ve been babysat by the television and you’ve eaten fast-food more than is possibly good for you. 

And you’ve endured.  You three have endured 30 hours in an airplane to a place with smells that made you sick.  You’ve been hot and tired and homesick.  You’ve had to sleep on floors and you’ve tasted a small bite of  homelessness.  You’ve sat down to the dinner table and hated the food in front of you, and you’ve been asked to pretend anyway because people were watching–always watching.  You’ve endured loneliness in the pool when none of the other kids could talk to you, and you’ve had to entertain yourselves in a sweaty van as your parents looked at house after house after house.  You’ve suffered through bug bites and sunburns, and you’ve been assaulted with the unknown.

But, mostly, kids, you have known what it’s like to have parents that were only partly there.  Parents who were deeply distracted, and parents who were at the end of themselves.  A dad and a mom who spoke harshly sometimes and complained often and wanted to give up lots. 

And your father and I, our dream for you in this move was to give you a taste for what it means to radically follow Jesus in a broken world.  We set out to model for you the blessing and joy that comes from those who step out of the boat, who risk. 

But, we have failed you in so many ways.  

Instead of modeling joy, we have often modeled irritibility.  Instead of modeling faith and trust, we have shown a lack of perspective and a tendency to depend on ourselves.  Instead of being a firm place for you to rest, we’ve asked you to hold the string of the kite that is us on a windy day.  And that’s just not fair.  {image courtesy Sarah Markley} 

So, Kelty, Cade, and Ava, forgive us.  Forgive me.  For all the times over the past months when I have let you see the ugly, the weak, the ways I am not like Jesus.  Forgive me for expecting too much of you, and forgive me for not being the intentional, Christ-trusting mom that you need and that I said I was.  If there’s one thing this move has taught me, it’s that I am much less than I gave myself credit for. 

But another thing it’s reminded me of is that no matter where we are on the globe, you three and your daddy are still my greatest earthly gifts.  And I keep believing that despite my obvious failings, the absolutely best place for the three of you to be right now is

following us

as we try our best to follow Jesus. 

 And that following will be hard–as you’ve already tasted–but I know, I know, that this piece of your story is somehow deeply, deeply good.    

Broken, but Hopeful,

Mom

Riding in a tuk-tuk in downtown Chiang Mai.

 Need to write your kids a letter–an apology, an affirmation, a confession?  Anyone?

Tagged as: motherhood & marriage, moving overseas, story