To the Son "I Don't Know"
Dear Thomas,
You said something this week that, if I'm honest, cut me to the core. "You don't even know me." The words were thrown out there, and I don't even think you meant them as strongly as you said them. But they gave me pause. Don't I know you? Haven't I always known you?
I've spent many hours since then with your words tumbling through my mind. Now that I've had time to really think, maybe you're right. Maybe I don't know you. Not completely. I know so much about you--your little quirks, the way you move your fingers when you're talking, your sweet pattern of speech, your energy when you're passionate about something, your protectiveness and fierceness, your drive to save the world. I know your quiet places, those times when you are unsure and don't want the world to know it. I see it, and I smile. The face you show the world is always brave, always ready, even when I see the intimidation in your eyes. I know your loves, your dislikes, how, as you said to me once, "not every meal is a home run, Mom, and for the record, rice is never a home run." I know how your little shoulders scrunch up and you giggle to yourself when you've just caught on to a joke that was beyond your years. I know how open you are, how you draw others in, how you go out of your way to make friends with the people who are least like you. I know your heart. I thought I knew all of you.
But you're right. I don't know you. Not completely. I don't know the places--quietly, under the surface--that are being slowly shaped. I don't know all the dreams you have for yourself, the dreams you keep only to yourself. I don't know how the experiences you encounter daily are shaping your soul, making you new, changing you from the inside out. I don't know all of it. Not really.
I used to say motherhood boiled down to this: looking at the child in your arms and saying, "I don't know who you are, and neither do you--let's find out together."
That's what we've been doing. For seven years, we've watched you unfold, seen you come into your own, made note of the passions and fears and things that drove you. We know so many of them. We have (and will) walk alongside you for so many of them.
But not all.
There will be places where we can't go. There will be parts of you that we can never see.
Your words, although they stung, reminded me of the deeper truth. They drove me to my knees about it, actually. In the end, you are not ours. You never were ours. Your story is unfolding apart from us. We have a part to play, yes, and we will have some of the biggest portions of these early chapters. But who you are--really are--is something entirely individual to you, apart from us. Just like me, just like your dad, just like all of us, you stand alone before the God who created you. He is telling you who you are. He is shaping you into who you should be. He knows you. Completely.
It's a scary thing for a mother, to come to terms with my own small role. To realize I don't, can't, fully know you. Can't control who you become. But then, there's hope too. My knowledge, and my ways, and my vision will always fall short.
The words that stung so much this week have been replaced by new words, words that have given perspective and hope and peace:
"I thank my God every time I remember you. In all my prayers for [...] you, I always pray with joy because of your partnership in the gospel from the first day until now, being confident of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus." (Phil. 1: 3-6).
We will walk with you. We will peel back the layers with you. We will dig deep and know you as wholly as any parent can know their child. But even in those places where we can't go, you never go alone. Even in those areas we can never fully prepare, the work goes on. I am confident--absolutely sure--that the good work I see started in you already will be carried to completion by someone who knows you better than you know yourself.
I was humbled this week, but it was the right kind of humbling. I've thought long and hard lately about how much I need to be the one to teach you, shape you, listen to you, mold you. I've become more important in my role than I ought to be. Your words, whether you intended them or not, were truth that pierced through the layers. Your story is not about me. Who you are is not about me. It's a hard balance to strike: being fully invested, fully present, fully in your life, and yet knowing, in the end, it's not about me or my place.
I don't know you, Thomasy. I don't know what the future holds, or what your little heart holds now in the places you keep to yourself. But believe me when I say: someone does. Someone always has. I will know you as fully as ever I can, and I will be here, on my knees, pointing you to the one who can go deeper, who can make you who you were always meant to be. He knows you, Thomas, and that is more important than anything I can ever do for you on my own.
You said something this week that, if I'm honest, cut me to the core. "You don't even know me." The words were thrown out there, and I don't even think you meant them as strongly as you said them. But they gave me pause. Don't I know you? Haven't I always known you?
I've spent many hours since then with your words tumbling through my mind. Now that I've had time to really think, maybe you're right. Maybe I don't know you. Not completely. I know so much about you--your little quirks, the way you move your fingers when you're talking, your sweet pattern of speech, your energy when you're passionate about something, your protectiveness and fierceness, your drive to save the world. I know your quiet places, those times when you are unsure and don't want the world to know it. I see it, and I smile. The face you show the world is always brave, always ready, even when I see the intimidation in your eyes. I know your loves, your dislikes, how, as you said to me once, "not every meal is a home run, Mom, and for the record, rice is never a home run." I know how your little shoulders scrunch up and you giggle to yourself when you've just caught on to a joke that was beyond your years. I know how open you are, how you draw others in, how you go out of your way to make friends with the people who are least like you. I know your heart. I thought I knew all of you.
But you're right. I don't know you. Not completely. I don't know the places--quietly, under the surface--that are being slowly shaped. I don't know all the dreams you have for yourself, the dreams you keep only to yourself. I don't know how the experiences you encounter daily are shaping your soul, making you new, changing you from the inside out. I don't know all of it. Not really.
I used to say motherhood boiled down to this: looking at the child in your arms and saying, "I don't know who you are, and neither do you--let's find out together."
That's what we've been doing. For seven years, we've watched you unfold, seen you come into your own, made note of the passions and fears and things that drove you. We know so many of them. We have (and will) walk alongside you for so many of them.
But not all.
There will be places where we can't go. There will be parts of you that we can never see.
Your words, although they stung, reminded me of the deeper truth. They drove me to my knees about it, actually. In the end, you are not ours. You never were ours. Your story is unfolding apart from us. We have a part to play, yes, and we will have some of the biggest portions of these early chapters. But who you are--really are--is something entirely individual to you, apart from us. Just like me, just like your dad, just like all of us, you stand alone before the God who created you. He is telling you who you are. He is shaping you into who you should be. He knows you. Completely.
It's a scary thing for a mother, to come to terms with my own small role. To realize I don't, can't, fully know you. Can't control who you become. But then, there's hope too. My knowledge, and my ways, and my vision will always fall short.
The words that stung so much this week have been replaced by new words, words that have given perspective and hope and peace:
"I thank my God every time I remember you. In all my prayers for [...] you, I always pray with joy because of your partnership in the gospel from the first day until now, being confident of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus." (Phil. 1: 3-6).
We will walk with you. We will peel back the layers with you. We will dig deep and know you as wholly as any parent can know their child. But even in those places where we can't go, you never go alone. Even in those areas we can never fully prepare, the work goes on. I am confident--absolutely sure--that the good work I see started in you already will be carried to completion by someone who knows you better than you know yourself.
I was humbled this week, but it was the right kind of humbling. I've thought long and hard lately about how much I need to be the one to teach you, shape you, listen to you, mold you. I've become more important in my role than I ought to be. Your words, whether you intended them or not, were truth that pierced through the layers. Your story is not about me. Who you are is not about me. It's a hard balance to strike: being fully invested, fully present, fully in your life, and yet knowing, in the end, it's not about me or my place.
I don't know you, Thomasy. I don't know what the future holds, or what your little heart holds now in the places you keep to yourself. But believe me when I say: someone does. Someone always has. I will know you as fully as ever I can, and I will be here, on my knees, pointing you to the one who can go deeper, who can make you who you were always meant to be. He knows you, Thomas, and that is more important than anything I can ever do for you on my own.
