There was a time when I thought this road called Motherhood would one day become breezy.

One day when ear infections and middle-of-the-night stomach flus were a thing of the past.

One day when homework no longer required my assistance and lunches no longer needed packing.

One day when they’d shop for their own clothes and purchase the extras with – could it be – their own money.

Now I know differently.

There are no breezy sections on this Motherhood Road.

Whether our children are two, twenty-two, or forty-two, we feel their pain in a way that is so exquisite that there is yet to be a word created that would aptly describe it. It takes us to the very brink of all we think we can feel or think or experience…and then the very next day it surprises us all over again in completely new ways.

It has been said that pain is the best teacher in the world. And while a part of me really wants to balk at this, particularly in the case of motherhood, I find that I still agree with it.

The pain of motherhood – of loving this extension of yourself so much that your heart bleeds when they hurt – teaches us about what is good and right and truly important in this world. More and more these days, I am reminded of what is no longer fundamentally important to me. Instead I cling to what I know.

And I know that my purpose is to love and to nurture and to find joy in the simple things.

I came across this blog that I wrote quite a while back. Instantly, it took me back to a day when The Teacher gave a lesson that I didn’t necessarily want to learn.

Forty-eight hours ago, I sat in a doctor’s waiting room, nervously and mindlessly flipping through the worn and smudged pages of one magazine after another. For two solid hours I sat in that black vinyl chair, all the while my heart was somewhere in the depths of that doctor’s office, in whatever room Nate was in.

As a half-hour turned to one, then an hour and a half came and went, I gave up all pretenses of reading or people-gazing or anything else that one tends to do in those type of settings. I gathered my purse and moved to the edge of my seat, and was truly only a nano-second away from barging behind The Door and finding my son all on my own.

And then these words begin to spill through my mind in the sweetest possible way:

“Peace, peace. Wonderful peace.”

“Coming down, from the Father above.”

Just like that my twirling thoughts stilled and my pulse returned to normal. Even though I sat here, in the one place, facing the one thing that I feared most during my kids’ growing up years, I felt the peace of God. I wish that I could control heredity, that I could somehow shelter both boys from the pains and trials of life, whether it be physical, mental, spiritual, or emotional. And yet – just as I could only sit with them held firmly in my lap during those awful visits for shots, for ear infections, for chicken pox – now I could only sit in a lonely chair in the waiting room, knowing that my firstborn was on his own this time. Besides my presence and my prayers, I was helpless.

“Peace, peace. Wonderful peace.”

“Coming down, from the Father above.”

The lesson that day – and the one that I’ve had to repeat several times since – has been one on acceptance. Accepting what is and letting go of preconceived expectations and even plans and goals I may have had for my children. What I’m learning is that in letting go I am receiving something so rich and so full that my mother’s heart almost can’t contain it all.

I am receiving the fullness of joy that comes with true peace of mind.

And that’s pretty breezy, let me tell ya!

I posted over at Faith Lifts today…