“What greater thing is there for two human souls, than to feel that they are joined for life — to strengthen each other in all labor, to rest on each other in all sorrow, to minister to each other in all pain, to be with each other in silent unspeakable memories at the moment of the last parting?

~George Eliot

 

My son and I are going through Andrew Peterson’s The Wingfeather Saga. A brilliant and precious series of books. Any book that can make me ugly cry usually goes on my list of favorites.

 

I won’t go into a review here, but the story centers around a family, three children in particular and those that love them, having to escape dreadful circumstances in order to survive. Their mother, Nia, is a widow, having lost her husband and home when the children were very young.

 

In the 3rd book of the series, The Monster in the Hollows, there is a scene where Nia picks her children up from school and because it's snowing, takes a moment to play and laugh with them outside, throwing snowballs.

 

Janner (age 12), the main character (we get the most of his insights and feelings in the narrative) reflects on her lighthearted mood and disposition.

 

Kalmar and Leeli were already throwing snowballs at Nia by the time Janner cocked his arm. He paused, struck by how beautiful his mother was. Nia’s bright red scarf was dotted with snowflakes and matched the rosy bloom of her cheeks. The lines at the corners of her eyes were creased with laughter instead of worry, and her teeth glistened while she laughed. He had never seen his mother so fair or so playful, and he doubted it would last. It was a glimpse of who she had been before his father died, before her home had been set on fire, before her kingdom had fallen and her children were hunted. He told himself to write this moment down so he would remember it. (Peterson, 225)

 

As we keep reading, we learn that Nia informs the children that another character, Rudric, has proposed to her. Janner is immediately filled with a variety of emotions and takes off on a run.

 

He ran blindly into the snow, not knowing or caring which direction. His heart erupted with anger and sadness and embarrassment and hurt that he had to put somewhere. So he ran. His cheeks ached with cold. His nose dripped, and he hated the way he sounded, blubbering words that made no sense. He wanted his father to be alive, to love his mother, to make her young again, the way she had been just now. He fell to the ground and convulsed with sobs, heedless of the snow on his face.  (Peterson, 226)

I had to stop reading for a moment after that section. How beautiful, the idea that Nia's husband and his love for her had made her young. The idea that the outside was not a reflection of the inside, that the shelter of the love that Janner's father had for his mother was enough to keep Nia free, the freedom so often found in youth, the one without the worry and weight of the world.

 

I thought of my own husband, Matthew.

How beautiful he was.

He had done that for me.

Before his diagnosis, his love had sheltered and held space for me. It gave me the room to explore who I truly was, what I liked (and didn’t like), and ultimately be free in so many ways that I had never known before. The weight of all the cares and needs of our world were not on me. I didn’t shoulder them. I didn’t have to. I had the freedom to be me, to be a mother, to be a homemaker, and to truly discover that home, love, and rest were the callings of my life.

 

After that horrible night, when I found him on the floor after a seizure, when he had broken his shoulder in 3 different places due to the fall, all of that changed. A heavy cloud came over our house and family and I was left to take up the mantle of investigator, pursuer of truth, caller of doctors, organizer of protocols and pills, chief juicer and cook, caller of 3 a.m. ambulance rides, and secretary to all of the appointments, scans, and IVs.

Every sound in the house had me on edge. The slightest noise of any significance made me desperately search our home for him to determine if had he fallen again or if he needed me.

 

So many times, I had to catch him before he fell and hit the ground.

I got hurt often. He was so tall and strong.

All I could do was soften the impact on the way down.

 

I would look in the mirror and not recognize my reflection. I had aged.

There was always worry and anxiety in the tone of my voice. My brow seemed to be in a permanent furrow.

I didn’t have time to play with my son.

There was no more drawing or sketching for me. No more playing the piano.

My cello stood in it's case in the corner of my bedroom. There was no time to pick up the bow.

There was always something to do, somewhere to be, a new book to study, a new protocol to implement.

 

I look back at that time. I would do it all again if I had to.

I wanted him to live.

In that time, I tried to spread my love over him, to shelter him and keep him, but I couldn’t erase his worries or his anxieties, as he had done for me.

He too held all the cares of our world on his shoulders.

Those were dark days.

 

As I write this, I sit outside at our farm table, listening to woodpeckers in the trees and watching squirrels play. There really is a symphony of bird songs out here and I’m enjoying every one. My son has made a mud puddle for himself in the corner of our yard with the water hose and is covering his little legs with mud.

I'm starting to remember what it was like to be free. To be young, again.

I still have anxieties and worries.

I still find myself rushing, always trying to do the next thing. I have to re-learn how to slow down.

I still find myself wanting to shelter and love.

 

But I also feel this strong pull, almost a calling,

to rest.

To stop striving.

To be made young again.

 

Can the Lord do that for me?

Yes, I believe that He can. He has always been able to do that for me.

His love can shelter me and hold space for me.