white knuckles on a diving board

The Super Bowl is blaring on the television downstairs in the living room. No one is down there watching. It is simply on for noise. I know, it seems quite un-American. There's no party in our kitchen, no chips and dip, no shouting at the referees. Instead, two kids are taking a bath, one is working on homework, and I'm trying to figure out what's going on.

I haven't blogged in weeks. My husband has bugged me about this, nicely. My responses have run the gamut from "I haven't had the time!" to "I don't have much to say," to "Neither have you." But, truth be told, I'm a liar. None of those reasons are true.

If you take a peek at the calendar hanging on my kitchen wall, you might be amazed. It is my organizational hub, the one piece to my life where everything is in its proper place. There are playdates, reminders, appointments, meetings, parties, and a whole slew of places to be and expectations to meet right there in black and white. It's the gray area, though, where things get fuzzy. That's the part that I think I've been trying to cover up. I think I've been purposefully trying to find more things to schedule and mark down on that calendar as a distraction, as noise--just like that game on the television downstairs.

I've known this for a while now, but like any bad habit, I'm not cured yet.

In November, not long after Aaron first left to start this 365 days on active duty, I took the girls to the movie theatre to see Tangled. They were so excited. I had it perfectly planned: left school a tad bit early, movie theatre gift cards in hand, supper plans were at the movie concession stand (not healthy, I know, but it was a rare occasion). Once the movie started, the girls were glued to the screen. There was no fighting over popcorn or nachos, and all seemed well. About 45 minutes into it, McKinley nestled onto my nap and put her lips to my ear. "Mommy, I like this movie, but I just really miss my Daddy." There it was - my first clue that no matter how hard I try to gloss things over for us, to do fun things to try and avoid reality, it backfires.

I'm in a "low". Which should be expected, after a high like our little mini-vacation last month to NC. It's really not an enjoyable thing to see your daughter sobbing and hugging her father (who is by this time also crying), both knowing full well that the chance exists for them to never see each other in person again. That's what I'm trying to avoid--the reality of that chance. Yes, my husband has assured me that his job in Afghanistan will be one where he'll stay put and not have to go outside the wire, at a base that is fairly safe (as far as safe places go in a land of war). Yes, I know that people are praying for him. Yes, I know that God will watch over my husband. But to use the illustration from church this morning, I have figured out that I want to jump....but I'm scared to death; I'm still clutching that diving board with knuckles that are tense and white.

Let me explain.

At Kingsway today, it was Family Central Sunday. It was the launch of a new initiative where the entire church studies the same Scripture with the same value as a lesson. Entire families worshiped together, and the service was exceptional. Faith was the topic, defined as "believing in what you cannot see because of what you can see." To further illustrate this abstract term, faith was described as when we are young and told to jump into a swimming pool, that someone we trust will be there to catch us. Naturally, though, there's fear. I remember my first time to jump.....or, rather, to want to jump off the diving board. My grandparents, who lived just 2 miles down the road from us, had an in-ground pool, and we practically lived there during the summer months. My uncles tried bribing me to just jump, but I would not have it. I knew how to swim, but I had a real fear of that deep end, the mysterious creatures that I knew lurked in those deep waters, and what would happen if......the what-ifs scared me to death. I was not getting off that diving board. I perched myself on top of it with my white knuckles clutching the edges of the board. I did want to jump, but it didn't happen for a while.

Can you easily make the connection now? I know how to swim, how to get through this deployment, because I've been doing this for a while. I do want to jump, to put every single ounce of trust I can muster into a Father that will catch me, to depend 101% on Him, but the what-ifs have me still clutching that diving board.

I am not the amazing mom that some people think I am. I have zero patience. I get frustrated way too easily. I find myself wanting to do things just for me rather than with them. Today, for instance, has been a nightmare. It's been one of those days where I completely understand why some animals, like polar bears, are prone to eat their offspring. I was tempted today. For the next 9 months or so, these kids are completely under my care. I am their mom who has to wear way more hats than I'd rather. On top of taking care of all my kids' physical and emotional needs, I am also the one they will instantly look to as a role model for how a Christian should act and talk and behave. Half of me wants to wish these next 9 months away so that it's done in the blink of an eye. The other half of me realizes how stupid that is, because then I think of Hunter.

You see, on the day a few weeks ago when Kennedy was sobbing, and Aaron was crying, and I was a mess, I drove about a half hour away from my husband when I learned that one of my 7th graders, Hunter Acton, had died. A sweet, innocent, big-hearted, smiling girl was gone from this earth. At first, amidst my numerous questions, I was overwhelmingly sad, and I grieved for her family over the miles and miles that I traveled that day. I offered up prayer after prayer. In the days that quickly followed, as I was again around her classmates and friends and my peers and allowed to attend her viewing, it all came together for me. It was a gift to me, really, being able to process the whole thing. After waiting in line for over two hours, my friends and I were nearing Hunter's family and her casket. There, on an easel, was a corkboard from Hunter's bedroom, decorated with photographs, awards, movie tickets, and the like. One item in particular caught my eye....a handwritten note from her mom from just a month or so before her death. She wrote simple words of encouragement and praise to her daughter, and then wrote, "I'm so glad that God has given you to me for now." Hunter's funeral on the following day was unlike any other funeral I had been to. Instead of the sole focus being on person who had passed away, the entire focus was on God, because that was truly what her life was about. She was a reflection of Him. These things basically rocked my little world. That note from her mom? That was the definition of faith. That definitely wasn't someone gripping the diving board; rather, it was taking a flying leap into the water without thinking twice about it.

My problem is that I don't live that way, and part of me is scared to. I want my children to be my very own, not on loan from someone much bigger and more important than myself. But yet, I'm not being the kind of mom I want to be when I'm like I am now. If I rewind in my head the events of today and all the things that made me consider polar bears who eat their young, none of my words or actions were in God's image. I did nothing worth repeating or, more notably, worth my kids taking note of.

Since the funeral, I've had a picture of Hunter on my frig. A reminder not necessarily of her, but of who she was. Of how to live without the extra noise and distractions. How to live in a way that is pure and simple and true. How to jump into an extraordinarily remarkable life that is on loan from Someone who breathed us into being, who cares for the flowers in the fields, who orchestrates the most powerful storms, and who holds every single atom in this world together. My God is that big, much bigger than my most humongous fears.

Tonight, I'm moving her picture from the frig to my calendar. I think the reminder will be much better suited there.

And, as soon as I post this, I'm going downstairs to turn the television off. I don't need the noise. I've got much bigger things to place my focus on without that silly distraction to fill the empty space.