With my Soul

I hate not knowing. It’s the truth. I want to know what tomorrow holds, I want to know what that look you just gave me meant, and I want to know every single one of my Christmas presents. Still. And I’m thirty-three. Oh, and I also want to tell you all of yours because I am so excited for you. (I fear my boys are going to figure this out soon and use it against me.)

Surprises give me anxiety. Major anxiety. When my husband texts me and says “Hey, plan some time to talk tonight” I immediately begin a full on panic. I need to know the topics he wants to discuss so I’m prepared. I text him back and tell him this and I get a “?” followed by a “I just thought we could make it a point to connect since we have been so busy.” Oh. So I overreacted. Again. My bad. I text something cool and cavalier back like, “Totes. That’s cool, yo.” Hoping my mixture of valley girl and gangster will distract him from my (over)reaction.

I used to watch shows or movies with some thrill to them. Ones that had moments where you can’t decide if you should cover your eyes or keep watching. You don’t know if the bad guy is going to get caught, or if it is even him coming around the dark corner as the creepy music ensues. But alas, no creepy movies for me now because I literally dissolve into tears. Suspense makes me bust out the ugly cry and if I have to fast forward HGTV because sometimes the suspense is just too much, then we know I have a problem. I want to get to the end. Quickly. And often, the ending is more important to me than the plot because no Mr. 9th grade teacher, the ending doesn’t always justify the means. So, if you haven’t pegged me by now, then yes. I watch hallmark movies and I love them. The hallmark channel. The place where endings are always happy. And when they aren’t, that one time, I was pissed.

So, I confess I’m an overly anxious person who wants happy endings so badly I (sometimes) (ok, most of the time) read the last chapter of books when I get to know the characters, just to be sure it will be a good investment of time. Just to make sure they live happily ever after. Oh, and Nicholas Sparks? Off limits unless I just need a catharsis. Someone needs to send him a happy message in a bottle.

I don’t know why this has gotten worse over the years, this need to not be surprised and this desire to be prepared. I remember growing up and even through college, I studied for answers. Literally. Except math where numbers and my brain simultaneously go into a black hole and die. But studying, knowing, passing tests, acquiring knowledge, it was part of the great plan. The expectations for becoming an adult. There were a million questions out there and my responsibility was to uncover the answers, retain them, get a few diplomas, and know those answers in preparation for the real world.

And then, just like that, I was in the real world. I was the adult. Even one that still embraced intense theatrical moments without bursting into tears. My life was pretty chill. I graduated with my masters in counseling and was embarking. How exciting. I had worked hard to have all the answers. Magma Cum Laude baby, all the way until the end.

Magna Cum Laude. It is funny how the one answer that wasn’t acceptable in college was the only one I could often come up with after. Because what I quickly and painfully became aware of was that the answers on paper, the answers in theory, the responses I was taught, they weren’t working. They weren’t practical. Standardized tests don’t work in the real world because experiences can’t be standardized. Perhaps that was my first self-taught lesson as an adult in my new post college, career beginning stage. That an answer of “I don’t know” to a question didn’t mean you had failed to find the answer, it could simply mean that there was none to be found.

It came within the first month that I was working in my dream job as a high school counselor. I was assigned to a group of kids who struggled. Struggled in every way. This was my ministry, and I set out to help them. To give them answers. But they asked questions I had never heard. “Why did my moms boyfriend shoot her in front of me and leave me to watch her die?” “Why did my parents choose drugs and end up in prison over choosing me?” “Why did my uncle rape my little sister?”

Silence. Tears. “I’m sorry. I don’t know.” Where was the fast forward button? Where was the last page in their story? Even if I could know, would it be a happy ending? Sure, I talked with these kids. I poured my heart and soul into giving them any insight I could, any hope that I could. But at the end of the day, I often walked to my car with “I don’t know.”

And the I don’t knows of life just started bugging me. Overwhelming me. The intense struggles, so real before me, stopped being entertaining. I had watched movies believing they were over dramatized fiction until I grew up and realized those horrors were not dramatic. They happen. Every day. Except vampires. I think. (Yes, that was sarcasm)

And then I had children. These beautiful, wonderful, gifts from God who I want nothing but the best for. And then the I don’t knows of life became terrifying. So I try and prepare for everything. Type A and OCD working together at its finest, just try and throw me a curve ball. I dare you. But please don’t, I hate surprises.

As a mother I am daily reminded that my boys belong to God. I do not know and can’t control the ending to their story. God gave them a pen and hopefully I can supply them with enough ink to author their own adventures. But they write the words because they will make choices independently of me. Gasp. And when my first-day-of school-kindergartner told me I could just drop him off in carpool and not walk him in, I knew he had enough ink to write all his kindergarten adventures. But yes, I walked him in anyway, letting him lead the way. There were pictures to be taken, people. Instagram would have been highly disappointed in me if I had not.

I had this Oprah moment while I was watching HGTV. (Fine. I like Oprah even though she is a flip-flopper. She may or may not have redeemed herself in joining with Starbucks to make my favorite Chai drink.) So, HGTV. Jen Hatmaker and family were on, renovating their house. (If you haven’t read 7, Go. Buy. Now.) They previewed their little boy seeing his new room for the first time and I couldn’t wait to see that happy part. I was ready to fast forward through the rats in the attic, my jealousy over her extremely handy-man husband, and some of the step-by-steps so I could totally share in that awesome moment. And yes, I’m an involved TV watcher. (My DVR list is like my diary) But something in me drew a parallel and said I needed to allow and enjoy the progression of life, to enjoy the journey without fast forwarding to the destination. So I saw the dead rats. And survived the eye rolls from my husband as I exclaimed, “you should try that.”

Point being, I’m learning to live in the middle part of my life which, for me, is the mom part. Also known as the slight shaking of head when no one is around, “I don’t know” part. And I’m learning that it is okay. I’m learning that I’m not ultimately in control of happy or sad endings. I’m learning to enjoy the journey. I’m learning that faith doesn’t grow in the absence of fear, but in its presence. I’m learning that the unknown is to trust what milk is to a baby. I’m learning that just as God designed motherhood for our babies to draw near to us for a season, He also designed it for us to draw near to Him. Because when I’m not near, I’m far. Period.

Yes, I will probably, almost assuredly, always hate surprises. The not knowing. I will probably, most assuredly, always be a thinker and a planner. But I most definitely don’t need to be anxious, to live in anxiety, fear over the unknown. Because I have learned that to be okay with the “I don’t know” is also to say, “It is well with my soul.”

I very much wish I could have written happy endings for all those kids I counseled that deserved nothing less. Sometimes I wish I could write a hallmark ending for each of my own boys. But since I can’t, and because all I can do is have faith and trust, I’m grateful that I’m not responsible for giving them a million answers to unlock some secret formula for that perfect ending. I just have to teach them one. Jesus.

If I can be successful in giving my boys that answer, of showing it to them, I can be confident that they won’t get lost in the “I don’t know” moments of their lives, but rather be able to say, “Even so, it is well with my soul.”

A song for my boys