I let him see me cry.

I stand in a pile of strewn laundry, left by boys who take for granted the magic transformation of stinky clothes into fresh folded stacks. The machines are churning as I glance out the window. I watch my college son chase his nine year old brother and his two friends around the front yard. An old game revisited because a big brother came home for the weekend. My thinking goes like a quick glance through a favorite magazine as I take a look at the ways my home is restored when the oldest returns. The boys banter, tease, play games, argue about which movie to watch together, gather around the piano with baby sister in lap, huddle around baby toys, extol the new baby’s triumphs, marvel over her presence in our home, and loiter in the kitchen, always eating. I don’t have to participate to be deeply affected by their mutual enjoyment. Watching them together is like being at the theater, and I am their obsessed fan. I never miss a show.

Their leader has returned. The three of them heave a relieved sigh to have home instantly restored to the way they remembered it in the first moment that college kid walks through the back door. He’s bigger. He’s stronger. He looks more like a man. (He better be smarter.) With him here we realize how much we missed him. When he is away we adjust, we move on, we make a new normal. But when he arrives there’s a sparkle shimmering in the eyes of the brothers because it is the way they like it best at home. All I have to do is watch the five of them together to feel the swelling, strangling emotion of rich joy. And I nearly fold in half with the need to thank God for their togetherness, their fondness, their authentic friendship nestled under the umbrella of brotherhood.

When they were young, and so were we, we struggled to keep them from hating one another and we untangled their writhing jealousies. I never would have imagined I could watch them as they are now. It is a gift. I receive it, I hold it high above all other things in life that promise pleasure and I drip tears of gratitude to God for allowing me this privilege of being called mama by each of one of them. I gel in place, with gaping mouth, watery eyes, immobilized and I watch them together. They like each other. I see the seemingly impossible dreams of a young mother come true. I am undone.

Again I recognize God has given me a gift that my heart begged to have. There’s no belief in me that assumed I deserved it. It was given despite my messy interventions. It is my treasure. I bow to a good God whose love endures forever and I whisper, thank you, you didn’t have to but you did and I am so overwhelmed by the good gift: brothers who are also friends.

I lift up a shirt from the clean pile and I don’t recognize it. I didn’t buy that. He is taking care of himself more and more. His independence is expanding. I notice this thought causes me to slouch. I get to watch it happen, but I’m not allowed to interfere. It can only happen if I open my hands. It’s the goal of parenting I remind myself.

So all I can do is thank God for the other gift, Kirabo. She was given to us because we like this life of parenting and we wanted more of it. We are not eager for it to be over. There isn’t something urgently pressing on me to do when they are out of the way. So I nearly sob when she crawls into the laundry room and finds me. She is surprised to see me. She shines a sunny smile and moves quickly towards my open hands. And I am relieved. Her weight in my arms, and the squeeze of her dimpled hands on my shoulders reminds me that it isn’t over.

I hold her and it is a salve for my raw heart that he is not only packing to return to college, but also happy to go. He should be. This should make me happy but I am selfish and I don’t want it to be over. So I let him see me cry as we say good-bye. It’s an ugly cry, choking throat pain and swelling face. He stops saying good bye and looks at me, “Mama”, his voice is tender, and he pauses. I think he feels my pain, it is love, he knows I don’t want him to go, and then he says, “I will call you more.”

That would be nice.

After he’s gone it is quiet. The boys go to their rooms. Being still hurts so Kira and I re-organize the pantry, but I am really searching for the good chocolate. I can only find lunch sized pudding cups so I eat two. And I do feel a little better. I believe chocolate is good medicine and so is a long walk in the woods with a faithful dog and a big stroller. We go. I pray as I walk and that is the real medicine, the one that cures. The moment I can show Kira a white heron we stop. We are fixed on its elegance. This lanky bird is a gift of beauty for us to behold together. I tell her, “bird”.  She’s motionless, fixed, rapt, and I enjoy how much she wants it. I repeat it many times as she watches the miracle of it taking flight, “bird”. I say it over and over until it flies out of sight, and then I tell her, “bye-bye”.  She cries for it to come back.

I let her cry and I think, yes, the beautiful things fly away. They grow up, they leave home, and they come back. We feel happy, and we cry. We know we are changed because we got to see. We can’t control the return. We can only hope. And we believe in the good God whose love endures forever. He gives good gifts.

Kira whimpers as we carry on with our walk and I tell her like she will understand that the bird will come back again. How can she understand, I am only beginning to understand it myself.