Leaving the Garden of Eden

Since becoming a mom, I have heard the adage the days are long, but the years are short and to make sure I soak it all in, for one day you will long to be back here. In the early days, I inwardly looked at people like they were crazy when they said that to me, a constantly harried mom, ever mindful of what had yet to be accomplished to ensure I had my three home in time before the nap window closed forever–or hunger hit (especially with Adrian’s food sensitivities with wheat, soy and dairy). It wasn’t that I didn’t enjoy our time, nor our little life. And, I did make a point of  soaking in the beauty and joy within the chaos. However, I was the type of mom who simultaneously enjoyed the current stage and looked forward to the next. I loved their minds growing and learning and their constant becoming. With every stage, I found there were things I longed to leave behind and things I knew I would miss. However, the end goal was always on my mind: to foster a healthy mix of independence/interdependence, with a thriving sense of self and a huge heart for others. 

Today, I love watching them in their current stage of young adulthood. I love seeing their interpretations of situations, seeing how they adopt–or don’t–the lessons I tried to instill. I love the way they challenge the status quo (much of which I blindly passed on to them), and the way their insights explode my whole brain, keeping me fluid in my worldview. I hurt when they hurt, offering to help in any way I can (which isn’t much any more)–and also rejoice watching them emerge stronger for it on the other side of pain/worry/heartache.

I fully recognize it might be easier for me than other parents, as I have never been one who needs my people near. Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE when my people are here. There is nothing better than having all my people in the same place–especially when I am allowed to leave and take a nap in the middle of the chaos for a quiet recharge. To be fully transparent, I need to have some of my people within reach, but who those people are has been fluid throughout my life, teaching me that I can be ok when they are no longer available–even through death. 

This is why I think I have rarely struggled with a feeling that God is not near. Even with all the hard shit I have gone through. There are times throughout my life where there has been distance between us, but that has always been due to my desire to go inward or my frustration with Them bc They are not swooping in to save me from the pain I am experiencing. Or, it's been due to my need to heal and not be asked to do anything else for the cause. While I should inherently trust God to take care of me, I think She understands the hard boundary I give during those times and honors my need for a sense of agency while grieving things I cannot control.  However, I have always felt They are near me and when I am ready for comfort and turn toward, the warmth is immediate. 

During their high school years, I was floored one day to find out that our kids don’t remember much of their childhood. I mean, 100% shocked, and a wee bit hurt. To be fair, my siblings and I don’t remember a lot, but I attributed that to collective trauma. I assumed that, consistent with research, my kids would therefore remember more of the fairy hunts, creative projects, LLM’s (Lutes love moments), snuggles, vacations, zoo trips (so many hours spent at the Milwaukee Zoo), etc. All those moments that I was intentionally creating memories of a happy childhood. I literally saw this as my J-O-B, memory making–equal in importance to consistency of schedule and follow-through (i.e. predictability in their little lives). As a whole, those years were some of my happiest in my life thus far–seeing the world through the eyes of happy and well-loved children–all the hope and beauty that entails. For a few days, I actually grieved their lack of memories before realizing that those memories were actually mine to cherish, hold, and share. Yes, they were important for them–the core memories that they hold in their souls that will shore them up and keep them steady throughout adulthood. They were also pivotal to us surviving individuation during the teen years with relationship still intact. However, they were not the sacred and voluminous treasures I thought I was storing in their minds. Instead, they were--and continue to be--sacred treasures stored in my mind–and I am forever grateful for them. 

This morning, as I reflected on what it is like to process the aftermath of this election with three young adults navigating lives at each of their new colleges, all born and raised female (before they knew themselves well enough to reveal their truest selves), all LGBTQ+, all neurodivergent, all deeply feeling souls, I wished they were young children again. For the first time, I longed to be back in those days to ride this out in an environment in which I could corral and protect them. I recently heard someone describe the Garden of Eden as and allegory for leaving childhood and stepping into adulthood. This allegory popped into to my mind and I wept. Maybe the Garden of Eden was really for God. Maybe She knew what was to come and needed that time of innocence, beauty, and deep connection in order to sustain hope for eternity. Yes, it also created a ‘core memory’ that many of us hold as a way to envision what Heaven will feel like, and what to strive for on earth as we attempt to create heaven on earth through community, connection and our best summoning of God’s love for others. For the first time, I really sat with the fall of the Garden of Eden through God’s heartbreak as I realized for the first time that I do miss my kids’ childhood. I miss being able to keep them safe, shielding them from both physical and emotional dangers. I miss the free-flowing joy and love we shared that wasn’t encumbered by the weight of the world. I miss them looking at me, trusting I was capable of those things. And, most of all, I miss seeing the world through their eyes. 

On his way out the door for work this morning, Mike alerted me to the spectacular sunrise. I headed to the front porch and allowed the visual warmth of that sight to wash over my weary soul as I sat, held in God’s open arms, and typed.