Surrender

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It’s usually about 5:15am. If we make it to 5:30am, we consider ourselves fortunate. For several months, it was the tunes of High School Musical – the likes of Gabriella and Troy ushering us (however much against our will) out of REM and into consciousness. These days, it’s the dueling lyrics of the surfers vs the bikers from the Teen Beach movie series. As soon as one song ends, our feisty thirteen-year-old daughter barks an order to “Echo” to play the next song of her choosing. This is usually the point where one of two problems occur. The first is, because our daughter insists on listening to her music at sonic-boom level, Echo usually can’t hear the next request being yelled to her. And so begins the utterly painful repetition of “Echo! Stop music!” voiced with increasing volume and frustration until Echo can hear over her own volume (?) and respond appropriately.

Once the music stops, my husband and I know to take a quick breath of relief and prepare ourselves to listen to problem number two play out. Because our daughter has Down syndrome, her speech is not always as crystal clear as Echo needs to understand her request. And, just to be clear, past experience has taught us we are not to get involved (i.e. door slammed in our face as we break the sacred teenage closed-door boundary to offer our services). So, the back and forth begins – Mary tells Echo to play one song and Echo comes back with entirely the wrong tune. The two of them go on like this for some time until Echo finally gets it right and the singing and dancing can finally continue. 

Every morning. This happens e. v. e. r. y.  m. o. r. n. i. n. g. Like all seven of them in the week. All 28 to 31 of them in the month. I fully consider Echo a part of our family at this point. I actually find myself empathizing with her when her best efforts to get it right don’t pan out and find myself cheering her on in my head – “C’mon Echo. You’ve got this.” I am always impressed – and oddly grateful – when she does figure it out and makes my daughter’s wish come true.

As I listened to Mary sing and dance her way into a new day this morning, I myself was downstairs snuggled on the couch, coffee in hand, trying to listen to the daily teaching through the Hallow app for the 40 days for Lent. (Side note: if you haven’t yet tried the Hallow app, sign up now. It is so – so – so good.) The entire series for the forty days of Lent is based on one word: surrender. Does anyone else’s skin crawl at that word? I’ll be totally honest in confessing that those nine little letters present what I find to be the most difficult challenge in life. Oh, how I love control. It is all at once my best friend and my deadliest enemy. 

My faith life is just wonderful when I’m talking to God and he’s right in line with my every need and desire – and perfectly-planned-out-plan. I’m just the most fabulously faithful person around when I bark a request and God understands and plays just the tune I asked for to keep me singing and dancing happily along. It’s when he doesn’t seem to hear me just right and asks me to dance to a different tune. That doesn’t sit well with me. The worries and anxieties are quick to pile on, his voice is drowned out by the noise of the world, and I find myself in the all-too-familiar back and forth of insisting I know best and asking for all the wrong things.

I’m learning, slowly but surely, that true surrender means having a grateful heart in all things. It is my daughter who gets up every day and, no-matter-what, begins with song and dance. Her life isn’t easy. Her extra chromosome makes so much of what we take for granted immeasurably hard. She’s vulnerable. Oh, is she vulnerable. And she feels fear and stress and doesn’t have the words to even explain it. But the joy. This inherent, indescribable strength, perseverance and joy in this beautiful little soul. It is the purest – most powerful – example of surrender.

Of course, surrender is not a one-time thing. It’s different for everyone, and for me anyway, it’s often a moment-to-moment request. “Jesus, I surrender myself to you. Take care of everything.” In this seemingly simple prayer, we are promised to find our freedom and asked to greet each day with expectant and grateful hearts. We’ve got this. I’d say it’s time to dance. “Echo, play music.”    

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I’m not necessarily known for being merciful. That’s not to imply I’m mean – but I am real. I don’t hold much back and, for the most part, people get to know the real me pretty quickly; sometimes as early as our first encounter. Such was the case I’d say for my future daughter-in-law.

The first time she came over for dinner, the four of us – myself, my husband, my son and his then brand-new girlfriend – played quadruple solitaire. This oxymoron is a deliciously fast-past competitive game where each player deals his/her own deck of cards solitaire style, yet any aces placed in the middle are free for all to play on. My five cousins and I would play this for hours on end growing up. There was always a significant amount of pouncing, a fair amount of yelling and a dose of legit rage every now and then when someone swooped in and played the very card you were trying to get rid of. Years of experience with this has left me a bit (ok, totally) blind to the somewhat viscous nature of the game and the trauma one might experience when trying it out for the first time. Enter future daughter-in-law stage left. 

Seated across from this young woman, we reviewed the rules of the game and I proceeded with the same aggressively competitive nature I have been raised with. Cue Katelyn grabbing one of her cards and reaching to the middle to place it down only to be beat out by my swift and merciless hand that snuck my card under hers, slapping it down with enough force to wordlessly declare to the universe that I owned the play.

While I never actually intended it, I now realize I couldn’t have planned a better hazing opportunity if I had tried. Katelyn had every reason to be horrified by my manner, yet not only did this girl take it all with ease, she came back. And, she still plays this game with me. Sometimes. If I ask nicely. 

Some might feel the need to apologize for such questionable behavior, yet I am more inclined to simply say, you’re welcome. No point in putting on airs. This girl deserved to know the truth of what she was getting into right from the start. 

It feels surreal, really. My guy – my first born – is getting married. I guess I’ve been training for this his whole life; each stage of letting go slowly preparing me for this handing over of sorts. As any mother might, I do wonder; have I done enough? Maybe not. But he has been raised in the presence of love for twenty-two years now. I may not be ready. But he is. 

He knows what love is. He knows it’s abundant in the easy but also hidden in those moments when what was easy becomes a decision. 

He knows love doesn’t mean perfection, but somehow it’s enough for two people who come in many pieces to form one beautiful whole. 

He knows love doesn’t mean grief won’t find you, but it does mean it won’t break you. He knows when one of you can’t carry the weight of it all, the other will be there to give more of themself than they ever knew was possible. 

He knows true love demands putting God first – even over you – because if he doesn’t invite God in, he can’t be the best friend, husband and partner he is called to be.

He knows love is work, it is sacrifice, it is wanting more for the other than you do for yourself. 

He knows love is in the messy bun and pjs as much, if not more, than the put together version that first caught his eye. 

He knows love means laughing together – often and loudly – even when it is at his expense. Not in a self-deprecating way, but in the acceptance that you are each a work in progress and there is always room and time for growth.

He knows love is in the unspoken glances that somehow say more than words ever could.

He knows you are a gift, handpicked just for him. He knows you are the other half that will – with time, through the mountaintop highs and valley lows, the easy and the hard, the living and the loving – make him whole. 

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And when her son was taken down from the cross and placed in her arms, she knew every moment – from the annunciation to his last breath – was God gently preparing her to let go and do the very thing a mother’s heart innately fears. Every precious moment together was this slow and steady realization that he was never really hers at all. She was given the gift of nurturing him, feeding his body and soul, protecting him, teaching him and loving him like no one else could. But it was all for this moment when he would give himself to the world in the most complete and selfless way he could. She no longer had to wonder if she had done enough. He was ready. And to all those who would open their hearts and receive him, she quietly proclaimed, you’re welcome.