There are a number of things over which I have control. Over the past month I have managed to coordinate the complete remodeling of three bathrooms (and I mean all the way down to the subfloor, ladies) and a retirement celebration for 300 guests. Honey, TB and I have processed through the final decision making for TB’s college choices (he is Lee bound!) and extended invitations to 65 close friends and family for a celebratory lunch. I’ve color coordinated clothing for 5 people to attend 4 events in the next 2 weeks. Bam! I know y’all – you’re thinking GOOOOOOO Mama!
Certainly, all the things we parents have control over are enough to keep us running from sun-up to sun-down. They are enough to keep our To Do lists growing and bank accounts shrinking.
Saturday, despite all my best management techniques, we were running late. Princess hates to be late. I know this. She knows this. Everyone within a twenty mile radius of our lives knows this. When it became apparent to her that we would not make a 10:00 start time for a group meeting she needed to attend, she announced she wasn’t going. Sort of the same way she announced – when she was three – that she would not wear a homemade Halloween costume. Or – when she was seven – that she was a vegetarian. Or – at 13 – that she is going to college in London. When she says something, she means it.
Because the apple doesn’t fall far, my immediate reaction was to dig my heels in deeper and explain that she was in fact going to the meeting and had she not taken so long to get out of bed this morning we wouldn’t be running late and after all I was ready and making this drive 20 miles away and she had better get her skinny butt into that meeting whenever we arrived and that was the end of this disCUSSION! Yeah. That’s what I wanted to say.
But the Lord shut my mouth. I asked Him if He wasn’t too busy could He help me come up with something a little more gracious and loving? Then I decided I would just drive on in silence until He could get round to me thank you amen. Because someone once told me that sometimes the most precious thing we can give our loved ones are the words we don’t say. I’m incanting this truth like a Tibeten monk (things we don’t say, things we don’tsay, thingswedontsay) when
four or five miles later, Princess said it again. “I’m not going in, Mom. You can’t make me.”
Then He hits me with this: She’s right. You can’t make her.
I’ve come to realize that the only sane way to raise teenagers is by recognizing that which I must release. Making Princess walk into that meeting is out of my control. She is not a toddler to be transported. She is not a child who can be guilted. At 14 years old, she has the ability to decide where her feet will take her and I cannot make them take her into that meeting. No amount of threatening, cajoling, compromising or incenting will work with this precious girl. If nothing else, I have learned that!
All I have power over is getting her there.
“Here’s the thing,” I begin, “you don’t have to go. And I can’t make you go. I am not responsible for whether you go or don’t go. But I am responsible for taking you there. So. That’s what I am going to do. I am going to continue to drive you to your destination. I am going to drop you off at your destination. And in an hour, I will pick you back up. If you choose not to go into the meeting, that’s your right. I think it’s a poor choice, but it is, ultimately, your choice.”
The only power I have is the power to get my child to the point where she can and is willing to make her own choices. I can’t even control whether she chooses good things or bad things. At the end of the day, my teenager has the power to do or not do. That’s part of growing up. We drive them to their destination, we drop them off and then they decide what to do next. While we pray. Ceaselessly.
So that’s what I did.
When we arrived at our destination – 15 minutes late – the tears began. “Mama, please don’t make me, please don’t make me. I can’t! I can’t!” Oy Gawd it was awful. Enough to make a mama want to sweep her babe in a tight bundle and soothe away the tears with kisses. But this is 14. This is choices. These tears can’t be soothed away with kisses. They have to be wiped – with her own hand.
I tried to stay confident in what I had control over. I kept saying “I’m just dropping you off – you choose what to do next. Wait in the lobby, wait on the stairs, sit outside the room, invite me to come with you, read under a tree. It doesn’t matter, Princess. But I have to drop you off. And you have to choose what to do next.”
At that very moment – I kid you not – a vehicle pulled up behind us. It might as well have been adorned with feathers because angels brought it to that parking lot. Angels. With halos. Fleet of wheel, so to speak. Sparkling. Maybe there was even harp music.
“Princess!” Two tiny teenage girls jumped out of this car and ran to pull Princess to her feet.
Princess wiped her eyes and sniffled. “Hi.”
“Come on!” they called, eager for her to join them, grasping her hand and pulling her forward.
Princess walked hesitantly between two others who are struggling with life. Not alone any longer. Slowly lifting her angry dug-in heels. Holding hands with one who was more sure than she. Taking steps away from her own powerless-ness. Had she not glanced back over her shoulder to catch my eye, wanting (I think) to see that I was still there, I probably could have gotten all the way back home with narry a thought about it. But she did glance back and I waved, realizing in that moment, that it is as hard for her to take those steps as it is for me to let her.
Then I drove to a small corner of the parking lot where I proceeded to bawl horible unsightly snotty tears – gasping THANK YOU LORD, THANK YOU LORD over and over again.
Because He is clearly, faithfully, almightily power-ful.
And I
am power-less.
between 12 and 20 