God in Me. God in You, You, You, and You Too.

On Sunday, my daughter got on a plane and flew to the other side of the country. This is the farthest she has ever been away from me. She’s never flown without me. The last time we were this far apart, I was in Las Vegas, and she was reading Harry Potter. That was nine years and one child ago. My reason for sharing that is: My world is a bit off-kilter, and I am using that as an excuse for bad skin, unexplained crying, crappy eating, not working out, and this is starting to sound a lot like pms…

Anyway, that wasn’t my point for writing. My point was this: I have been reading this awesome series (and if you have a penchant for self-awareness or just appreciate great writing, you should read it as well) and every day little granules of truth plunk me in the head.

Most recently I’ve been overthinking how we all process the same things so very differently. In my family of origin, if you ask each of us to describe the same event, you’d get five different stories. When my other two brothers were alive, their stories would be different still. Add in my parents’ views and you’d have even more. Each person firmly believes his or her version is the truth. Many of them were the hero in their version. But, it’s kind of like this:

Remember the time:
No, that’s not how it happened. It was like this…
OHHHH yeah, but then you said…
No, that’s close, but I said…
You did not…
She wasn’t even there…
Were you even there?
Oh, I remember, we were having Neopolitan dinner dish…

Even though we experienced a lot of the same things (we all lost our brothers and our dad), each of us walked away–except the two who didn’t–with different scars, stories, and memories. A few weeks ago one sibling summed up another sibling’s behavior with, “That’s just how he processed the shit that happened to us. We all dealt with it differently.”

I recently read Carry On, Warrior, and my biggest take away was her description of “Namaste,” acknowledging that the divine in us recognizes the divine in those we meet. That was bigger than a granule, it was like a rock on the head. God in me; God in you.

Ughhhhhh…we all process it differently…we all have the same God in us…My daughter’s on the other side of the world, and I have pms, OBVIOUSLY…

God is in my brother. He is in my mom. He is in that person who annoys the CRAP out of you. He is in the guy who cut you off in traffic. I’m not entirely convinced that there is the same amount of God in everyone…I’m kidding; calm down. God is in the Fed Ex driver that can’t find my house–dude…really? God is in the union guy that calls my husband at 1:00 a.m. and drags him out of our warm bed. He is in your boss. He is in the four disgruntled old ladies who complain the entire time in line. He’s in your kids. He’s in your mother in law. He’s in that homeless man, and you walked to the other side of the street to avoid him.

It is not my job to fix you, nor are you called to fix me. I may not change the world, but I can love and accept you and me as God loves and accepts us both. We might never be best friends, but I will see past your humanness and look for your divinity. Today my prayer is to step out of my own way as the divine in me reaches out to the divine in you.

I love you right up to the moon and back…

Today my daughter started her senior year of high school. That means that in just a few short months she’ll be done with this phase of her life and moving on toward a long college journey. For me, this brings on an onslaught of emotions. As I watched her leave, so grown up and sophisticated, I couldn’t help but think about how far she’d come since I dropped her off at daycare 16 years ago, and she cried until she threw up. And then I cried until I threw up.

I think about the nights I’d lie in bed with her, stroking her back, wishing she’d fall asleep so I could go do whatever chore seemed so important at the time. Now it seems so far away, the hours I spent rocking her, her tiny hand entangled in my hair, gently twisting it. Wiping her tears when I’d come home from work, and snuggling her until her tiny chest stopped heaving with sobs. There wasn’t even a shadow of insecurity in the young woman who left the house this morning. She was all new blazer and jeans and red lipstick confidence.

I think about all the imaginary games we played, and how I wished for them to be over so I could do whatever mundane task seemed so important at the time. I wish I could go back in time and enjoy and thoroughly appreciate them. I think of all the times I picked her up from my parents’ house, and my dad would be lying on the couch with Chloe treating him. And I think in just the blink of an eye she’ll be a real doctor, treating real patients. And my dad will surely be smiling down on her. How prophetic that he called her “my doctor” ten years ago.

So I’m crying, again, just like I do every year when my kids go to school. But this year it’s different. This is my first year of lasts. Her last first day of school. Her last year cheering. Her last homecoming dress. Her last prom. I am gonna be a mess. I have always cried at her school plays and concerts. I cried at NHS induction. I cried when she got her senior pictures taken. She used to laugh at me, which usually made me laugh too. Now she sticks out her lip, strokes my back, and softly says, “Aw, Mommy…”

Most of the time–when I’m not crying–I look at her in amazement. Amazed that she is so strong and smart and driven and confident. Amazed that she is so kind and loving and compassionate and empathic. Amazed at the goals she sets and achieves over and over again. Amazed at the dreams she pursues and sees to fruition. Amazed that so much goodness is emodied in such a tiny creature. Amazed that God let ME be her mom. Sometimes I shake my head in wonder. If someone had told me eighteen years ago, when I got pregnant, unmarried, unemployed, unsure of so many things, that this beautiful child was what was coming, I would never have believed them. I almost don’t believe it now.