Little Patriot
Today we went to a Memorial Day Parade close to us. It's impossible to overstate the lump in my throat for its entirety. It was in part out of gratitude for the service of those who have already fought. It was (I'm a little ashamed to admit!) in larger part because of this:
My heart both swells with pride and absolutely shatters when I see him like this. For most kids, this little outfit would be the equivalent of a Spiderman suit or a superhero cape--maybe they hope, in some part of their minds, to actually be that hero. But mostly it's just pretend. It's not make believe to Thomas. Weekly he tells me, "Mom, I'm going to be a soldier. I'm going to fight in World War III. And, Mom, just so you know--I might die."
He's such an epic, melodramatic kid. Sometimes I brush it off and nod and smile. Sure you will, son. But I think I'd be foolish not to recognize what's happening here. He may or may not be a soldier--that much is true. The reality is he's been raised already to stand up for what's right and good, to speak up for those who can't speak for themselves, to recognize a wrong and do everything in his power to make it right. Maybe in his grace God is giving me fifteen or twenty years to warm to this idea. At the very least he's giving me daily reminders that I need to be raising a son who would be willing to give the full measure.
It's probably un-patriotic of me to say this, especially on Memorial Day (although I am Canadian!): my aim should never be to raise a son who fights simply for the red-white-and-blue. But I should raise him to fight--as a soldier or otherwise--for freedom. I should raise him to be brave and selfless and quick to stand in defense of the defenseless. I should raise him to count the cost and find that it's worth whatever sacrifice it takes to protect others. I should raise him to respect authority and tradition and to join something larger around him for the sake of that freedom. In many ways, I should be raising all of my children to be soldiers.
But how--how??--do you reconcile this sight?
The selfish part of me wrestles daily with letting go. Granted, he's only five now. But someday, I have no doubt, I will be asked to give him up and trust. I have in smaller ways already. The truth is that my son is already willing to do what I can't bring myself to do. I walked around the cemetery today with him reading head stone after head stone of young soldiers. And my heart screamed, "She let him go! His poor mother let him go. She watched her precious son give the full measure. How did she do it? Did she know this was going to happen?"
One day recently, after an especially intense morning of ominous warnings and assurances that he was going to die on a battlefield someday, I picked up my Bible with tears in my eyes. How do I do this, Lord? How do I anticipate what could--and maybe will--happen to my son, and let him go? How do I celebrate his life, even if there's a chance it will end like this? How do I make it about his life, and not some awful death? How do I hold on to his life without clinging to it? How, how do I prepare us all for a sacrifice like this? I begged and pleaded for an example somewhere in the Bible. And then I remembered. Mary knew.
"Then Simeon blessed them and said to Mary, his mother: “This child is destined to cause the falling and rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be spoken against, so that the thoughts of many hearts will be revealed. And a sword will pierce your own soul too.” Luke 2:34-35
Mary knew all along, although probably not in any great detail and not in any way she could fully grasp, what was going to happen. Living in the Roman Empire as she did, I can't imagine that she didn't know what it would mean to do what Jesus did. At the very least she knew that he would one day go, to redeem what had been lost, to stand in the gap for his people. His life would be a life of sacrifice. How did she do it? How did she both raise him to be ready for the moment and keep from living only in its dread?
I think, to some extent, the answer comes a few verses earlier: "But Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart." Luke 2:19.
When I read the verse, although I'd never thought of it in that way, it leaped off the page at me. Her days with Jesus may have been numbered. I'm sure some days the fear and dread overwhelmed her despite her best efforts and intentions. But she recognized that she was witness to something exceptional. She knew that he was hers, for a time. She treasured up all the things she was seeing--treasured them, sealed away for her whole life--and pondered them. The moments and the memories were hers to keep, hers to learn from, and hers to relive when she needed to. She had been privileged to be given a front row seat in the unfolding of a phenomenal story of rescue, and she treasured it.
Thomas' story--all my children's stories--is still unfolding. I have no way of knowing, not unlike Mary, what is really written in the chapters to come. But I do have today. I do have my precious, full-to-the-brim-of-life five year old. I have a front row seat to an unfolding story--whatever the plot line!--in his life. My role is to prepare him, to shape him daily for whatever the future holds. My privilege is to treasure it all and keep it, to learn from it, and to relive it on the days when the present is far more painful. And my duty, just like my son's, is to be ready and willing, should it be necessary, to give the full measure. Maybe some of the pride I feel is in that he's so many, many years ahead of me in that. He is already my hero. I know without a doubt, though, that on the day when he turns to wave one last time and really does head off to fight somewhere, this is how I will still see him:
My heart both swells with pride and absolutely shatters when I see him like this. For most kids, this little outfit would be the equivalent of a Spiderman suit or a superhero cape--maybe they hope, in some part of their minds, to actually be that hero. But mostly it's just pretend. It's not make believe to Thomas. Weekly he tells me, "Mom, I'm going to be a soldier. I'm going to fight in World War III. And, Mom, just so you know--I might die."
He's such an epic, melodramatic kid. Sometimes I brush it off and nod and smile. Sure you will, son. But I think I'd be foolish not to recognize what's happening here. He may or may not be a soldier--that much is true. The reality is he's been raised already to stand up for what's right and good, to speak up for those who can't speak for themselves, to recognize a wrong and do everything in his power to make it right. Maybe in his grace God is giving me fifteen or twenty years to warm to this idea. At the very least he's giving me daily reminders that I need to be raising a son who would be willing to give the full measure.
It's probably un-patriotic of me to say this, especially on Memorial Day (although I am Canadian!): my aim should never be to raise a son who fights simply for the red-white-and-blue. But I should raise him to fight--as a soldier or otherwise--for freedom. I should raise him to be brave and selfless and quick to stand in defense of the defenseless. I should raise him to count the cost and find that it's worth whatever sacrifice it takes to protect others. I should raise him to respect authority and tradition and to join something larger around him for the sake of that freedom. In many ways, I should be raising all of my children to be soldiers.
But how--how??--do you reconcile this sight?
The selfish part of me wrestles daily with letting go. Granted, he's only five now. But someday, I have no doubt, I will be asked to give him up and trust. I have in smaller ways already. The truth is that my son is already willing to do what I can't bring myself to do. I walked around the cemetery today with him reading head stone after head stone of young soldiers. And my heart screamed, "She let him go! His poor mother let him go. She watched her precious son give the full measure. How did she do it? Did she know this was going to happen?"
One day recently, after an especially intense morning of ominous warnings and assurances that he was going to die on a battlefield someday, I picked up my Bible with tears in my eyes. How do I do this, Lord? How do I anticipate what could--and maybe will--happen to my son, and let him go? How do I celebrate his life, even if there's a chance it will end like this? How do I make it about his life, and not some awful death? How do I hold on to his life without clinging to it? How, how do I prepare us all for a sacrifice like this? I begged and pleaded for an example somewhere in the Bible. And then I remembered. Mary knew.
"Then Simeon blessed them and said to Mary, his mother: “This child is destined to cause the falling and rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be spoken against, so that the thoughts of many hearts will be revealed. And a sword will pierce your own soul too.” Luke 2:34-35
Mary knew all along, although probably not in any great detail and not in any way she could fully grasp, what was going to happen. Living in the Roman Empire as she did, I can't imagine that she didn't know what it would mean to do what Jesus did. At the very least she knew that he would one day go, to redeem what had been lost, to stand in the gap for his people. His life would be a life of sacrifice. How did she do it? How did she both raise him to be ready for the moment and keep from living only in its dread?
I think, to some extent, the answer comes a few verses earlier: "But Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart." Luke 2:19.
When I read the verse, although I'd never thought of it in that way, it leaped off the page at me. Her days with Jesus may have been numbered. I'm sure some days the fear and dread overwhelmed her despite her best efforts and intentions. But she recognized that she was witness to something exceptional. She knew that he was hers, for a time. She treasured up all the things she was seeing--treasured them, sealed away for her whole life--and pondered them. The moments and the memories were hers to keep, hers to learn from, and hers to relive when she needed to. She had been privileged to be given a front row seat in the unfolding of a phenomenal story of rescue, and she treasured it.
Thomas' story--all my children's stories--is still unfolding. I have no way of knowing, not unlike Mary, what is really written in the chapters to come. But I do have today. I do have my precious, full-to-the-brim-of-life five year old. I have a front row seat to an unfolding story--whatever the plot line!--in his life. My role is to prepare him, to shape him daily for whatever the future holds. My privilege is to treasure it all and keep it, to learn from it, and to relive it on the days when the present is far more painful. And my duty, just like my son's, is to be ready and willing, should it be necessary, to give the full measure. Maybe some of the pride I feel is in that he's so many, many years ahead of me in that. He is already my hero. I know without a doubt, though, that on the day when he turns to wave one last time and really does head off to fight somewhere, this is how I will still see him:
