Letting go

Yesterday, I packed up my son, stood outside a huge white bus, and waved frantically in a silent goodbye. This after waking him early and rushing him along and hollering to just get the boots on already because we have.got.to.go. On the ride to school, we talked about how fun it would be, this trip to the mountains. Three days without a mama and the void filled with fun and friends. He was excited, and I played it cool, but inside I cursed these crazy people who make ski trips mandatory and make mother’s cry when their boys aren’t looking. So I faked good cheer, waved, and mouthed a goodbye. 

I came home and opened up my laptop and staring back at me were the headlines, “Breaking Story”and “Tragedy on Swiss school trip”. And as my boy was riding in a bus filled with classmates down a Swiss highway, I sat reading the story of twenty-two children killed in a freak accident on their way home from a school ski trip. If not for the fact that my son would never have forgiven me, I would have driven straight down that highway and demanded my boy back. 
Instead, I stayed home and practiced the art of letting go. I cried some, even after receiving the teacher’s text saying my son arrived safely. Especially after the text, because there is nothing, absolutely nothing that separates me from those other mamas. They hollered at their boys, and rushed them around and waved silent goodbyes too. And they probably went home and breathed deep sighs and never imagined that a world of snow and ski trips would melt into a hellish nightmare in a matter of days. 
The older they grow, the more I learn that the child bearing never stops. It is a constant state of birthing them into new things, pushing them into life. It is letting them climb high, and packing their bags, and trusting in something more than yourself to make a success out of them. The pain is excruciating and there is no drug to numb a mother’s heart. I pray for those mamas whose hearts are broken, who have to let go of too much too soon, who wish for more than a silent goodbye. And I lean in hard to the pain of laboring over these children of mine, for as long as I have them.