What a whirlwind! I feel like phrase could be the opening sentence to every season I have gone through the last few years. 2021 packed a punch, but 2022 is coming in harder, deeper, and wider. My sisters and I entered the year in the throes of caretaking for my mother and her husband CR of 12 years. They moved here last November from California, both in their 80s, to receive more support. We didn’t know the extent of the help they would require, and the following months were spent trying to get our feet under us. Doctor’s visits, finding support, asking questions, every day a rollercoaster. When one issue would get resolved, a new one popped up immediately. And then we had to make the decision to bring hospice in for CR, and he peacefully passed away on February 23. That sentence makes the whole situation seem neat and tidy, but it wasn’t at all. My mother has dementia accompanied by a loving heart and a strong will which compounded the challenges surrounding the situation. My sisters and I brought our kindness, compassion, service, and care to the table, and although there are some things we wish had gone differently, we did a beautiful job during that leg of the caregiving journey.
One month later on March 23, my oldest son was on his way to work and had a traumatic car accident that decimated his truck, and left him alive with a broken jaw in two places. As my husband took our boys to school, he saw our son’s truck on the back of a tow truck. This was the way we initially found out an accident had happened at all. A flurry of phone calls to bosses and local ERs is how he found our son. The police called about 30 minutes later. There are stories surrounding this accident that are deeply tragic and painful. I don’t feel the freedom to share the greater story, because it isn’t mine, and this whole journey is only at the beginning for us anyway. What I can share are my feelings during the trauma which I know many mothers can relate to, and the lessons that I am receiving along the way.
Mothers suffer silently when their older children make terrifying choices. In the Christian world, there can be much shame felt when the fruit of our children’s lives is messy, complicated, and destructive. We hide, hunker down, protecting ourselves, our reputations, and our children. We know what is probably being said behind closed doors because we have said those same things about other families in the past. We know the current cultural proclivity to diagnose, try to put us in tidy psychological boxes, and point to certain choices that must have led to these results. It’s tough being a mother these days.
I choose not to hide. I choose not to sugarcoat any of it. I choose to let caring, safe people in to help tend my wounds. I would not have always done that. I do it because God has allowed enough pain and suffering in my life to reveal to me how deeply loved I am. And when I rest in that love, I have nothing to prove and nothing to hide. Belovedness changes us from the inside out. My 40s have been the decade of walking into the deeper places of love. It’s been a hard path. Everyone told me how amazing the 40s would be, and I found it to be stripping, an undoing, and in that, a path to knowing profound unconditional love. My children’s choices do not define me or my mothering, but they do hurt me, create curiosity, and cause me to sift the past, the current reality, and wonder about the future. Some days I do that in healthy ways, and other days I need others to call me back to trust, faithfulness, and identity. That’s the beauty of walking out trauma in a community.
I think it’s important to share our stories even if we can’t share the entirety. It feels cliche to say “it helps us to know we aren’t alone”, but that is deeply true. We do need to realize that again and again. Our stories aren’t unique. Sin and suffering are packaged in different ways, but their ramifications hit every single one of us. A tidy life is a myth. Our stories give each other hope, and hope seems to be in short supply these days. Ultimately, our stories are a form of worship. They point others to the love of God, His tender care, faithfulness, and beauty. The stories invite others to praise, marvel and see His goodness. Not necessarily #blessed kind of goodness, but the gritty goodness that sits in the dark and consoles the weeping, upholds the exhausted, and gives courage in the face of evil. The God of the Untidy Ones is dearer than I ever hoped for or dreamed.
I want to write my way through these times. I think that’s important. I want to take regular walks, delight in small daily graces, take road trips, and eat more Mexican. I want to keep hosting small groups of women, deepening my prayer life, cheering loudly at swim meets, and being vulnerable with my children. I want to keep showing up, day after day, year after year until my race is over. I want to share the Gospel, help others grow, and challenge them to go and do the same. I want to be about all the things I have always been about, but with greater humility, kindness, and grace. I want to accept life as it comes, and not as how I demand it to be. I want to be more like Jesus. This is the way.
Thank you, Aimee, for sharing. I have read this three times, letting it minister to me in my own place in life. Please keep writing as you are able. It is a blessing. I am praying for you and your family this morning.
Beautifully shared, Aimee. How terrifying to find out about your son’s accident the way you did! You are brave and true, and I respect you immensely. Mothering is damn hard—I’m incredibly grateful to have women walking beside me that I can trust and who also love my children.