Speaking this again and again feels like the steady unraveling of a lie, the kind of spinning around in circles that ends with a longed-for escape to freedom. It’s a stunned relief to finally name what has been squeezing the life out of me, out of us.
I am not her savior.
Lately, the still, small voice has been whispering something like this to me, and only now is it beginning to make sense: You cannot keep her from suffering. She is going to suffer, but this suffering is where she will find Me. You must not rob her of the discovery and experience of My presence. This is not about you, but you can still be with her.
You can still be with her.
Still be with her.
Be with her.
Last night, after texting with my husband a bit more, I walked down the hallway and peeked into my daughter’s room. She was still awake, still stuck in worry, an hour past her bedtime.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hey.”
I climbed into her bed and slid to a higher place, one that made it possible for me to cradle her. I opened my arms. She nestled right in like she’d been waiting for me all along.
She spoke first. “I’m sorry if I made you frustrated.” Oh, my beloved, I thought. This is not yours to make right.
“I am frustrated, but not with you, honey.” I pulled my breath in deep and then pushed it out into relaxation. “Wanna know why I’m feeling frustrated?”
“Sure.”
“I’m frustrated with how impatient I can be. I’m frustrated with the way I treat you when you’re feeling this way. I am sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s ok that you’re feeling the way you’re feeling.”
She burrowed her head in and thanked me. ”Nobody’s perfect,” she said, echoing my common words. Then she smiled. “But maybe someday we’ll be perfect. You know, like when we’re in heaven.”
I wondered if this was her heart’s desire for me, or for herself. Either way, I remembered how quickly we equate perfection with relief.
“I don’t think we’ll ever be perfect,” I told her. “To be honest, I’m not sure I ever want to be.”
She asked me why.
“Well, ‘cause then we’d be God, and I don’t want to be God. I think I’d like to keep needing God instead.” I began to sense something like peace, something like what comes when we trade fixing for loving.
I made a final declaration. “I love you, I’m right here with you, and you’re not alone.” I put my arm firmly across her chest and kept it there, sure to make my presence known, sure to challenge any heaviness inside. “It’s gonna be ok.”
I felt her body settle. She breathed in and out, slow and steady, and then she fell asleep. I held her as the Comforter held me. Together, we found our rest.
After a short while, it occurred to me that tears had been rhythmically falling over the sides of my face and into my hair. They had come with quiet ease, there to wash over and through my worry lines like living water.
