Letting go . . .

We have a story we like to tell every March on his birthday.

Immediately after Brice was born things were a little crazy in the hospital room. Come to find out in the years to come, crazy would be more common than not - but that's not the point I"m trying to make here.

When it came time to cut the umbilical cord, Buff spread the specially designed, extremely sharp scissors wide. At the same moment, little Brice, who was flailing his arms and screaming desperately at this insulting new environment he'd just encountered, grabbed one side of the open scissors. As soon as he felt the cold metal on his hand, he did what any normal healthy baby would do and clasped his fingers around it. He gripped the end of those scissors with the extraordinary strength only found in newborn fingers.

Thankfully, in spite of the craziness, Buff noticed this to be a problem before he caused irreparable harm to those tiny fingers. Everyone gasped loudly and froze for 1.2 seconds. This was a unique situation.

The doctor was the first to spring into action. She leaned over and tenderly pried each little finger off the scissors one.at.a.time. Those scissors were capable of amputating every finger or, at the very least, slicing them severely. She was beyond careful and extremely gentle in her approach.

He needed to let go. Holding on was only going to cause pain. This was not optional.

That is exactly how I feel this week.

I have been clenching very tightly. My grip is strong in spite of my lack of confidence. Now it is time to let go.

There are many ways God could loosen my grip. Most of those ways I imagine to be quite painful. They are abrupt and they get the job done.

But today he is very tenderly peeling off each finger one.at.a.time and quietly whispering in my heart, "Tina, please let go. I can take care of them. Trust me. Holding on will only bring pain. Let me help you. Let me be in control." His approach is so kind and gentle. It is so much more than I deserve.

And so after a couple last minute lectures, a few extra nuggets of good advice and a text or two filled with last minute reminders, I let them walk away.

After eight years of homeschooling, I sent my older kids to school. I think I've cried as many tears as the new Kindergartener's mom. Letting go when they are ages twelve and fourteen . . . it still hurts.

They aren't gone forever - that would have been the abrupt approach - but just for a few moments. I get them back. I'm allowed a few more lectures, another opportunity or two to share some wise advise,  and I'm sure I'll get in couple more gentle reminders, but they need to take some steps on their own.

Part of learning to walk is falling. They can't fall if I'm holding too tightly to their hands.

I get to walk beside them still. I have my megaphone ready to cheer them when they soar and my kleenex and bandages ready for the moments when they trip.

I get to be here - because I let go.

I get to be here - because God doesn't.