Letting go... a bus story

Abby walked away from me this morning, down the uneven brick pathway, across the yard, and climbed onto the bus... all by herself. I gave thumbs up to the bus driver, closed the front door and balled my eyes out.

My baby girl is sixteen. She isn't a baby, but it is so hard not to continue treating her like one. Most days I need Lucinda to remind me. She's unstable when she walks, especially on uneven surfaces. I wonder if she'll fall and if I'm doing the right thing? Is she ready? Do the bus drivers think I'm just being lazy? What about the string of cars behind the bus waiting on my dancing caterpillar to inch her way onto the bus?

I never really know how to respond to, "I don't know how you do it." In some stages of life, it has made me angry. Other times I feel grossly overpraised and embarrassed at the assumption of being impressive when I know the reality... most days I'm barely hanging on to the hands carrying me.

How do we do it? 

We let go, and then...

We let go again... and again... and again.

We start letting go earlier with special needs kids. Somewhere in all the chaos of machines and tubes running everywhere we realize "this gig is above our pay grade". It is, beyond a doubt, entirely too much... physically, mentally and emotionally. 

There is something innate that triggers the panic button inside of us during those days upon days in hospital rooms, but much unlike a fire alarm, it is eerily silent. It feels the same as the scene of a catastrophe, but people aren't running around and screaming like I think they should be to match the screams in my head. Instead, we sit beside a quiet bedside with little to no movements and find...

The strength to keep holding on, yet the capacity to let go. I don't know exactly how it is done, but we have the ability to grieve those moments while still maintaining hope they will pass or get better.

Friends, we don't walk away or cease fighting. It's not that kind of letting go. In fact, we do quite the opposite. We dig our heels in and hold on tighter, but our view from the bedside reminds us we have little control and we must let go. We cannot just enfold them in our arms shielding them from the pain or even tuck them in our arms and run away from it all.

We know we need the help of those in this place to be the hands and feet of Jesus because we don't have the tools to breathe the life into them like we want. But at some point, we have to go home. We must let go in order to come back. 

And then when we leave the hospital it's like a victory march! We can do anything! We are empowered as a warrior after a hard-fought battle. But it doesn't take long for a special needs parent to realize another battlefront emerges.

"This too shall pass," my dad used to say. 

"Something else will take its place," I learned all too quickly. 

It took a few (probably more) years for me to understand what this means, but it looked more like learning to live in the tough instead of waiting for it to pass... because it might not. It may actually get worse. We have to learn how to find joy and hope outside of circumstances in order to be healthy and occupy a happy home rather than a padded room. This is a daily pursuit. I'm not there. Maybe never will be? 

We have to let go when...

We send our kids off to "school" earlier than many of our peers for early intervention services;

We trust a perfect stranger to change diapers and feed long after their peers have mastered this skill and hope they incorporate love and hugs into their care;

We walk out of an operating room when the gas does its job, trusting the masked professionals to do theirs;

We interview caregivers to take our place so we can be wives and mother other children;

and when we put non-verbal kids on big yellow buses and wonder if we're doing the right thing.

We learn to let go long before our kids are "ready" because they may never be "ready" like our typical ones, but they still need as much independence as we can give them. But how?

We let go...

Over and over and over again... We let go.

When every fiber of my being wants to hang on and protect my girl with my physical body in the closest proximity to her as possible, I know I must let her stretch her wings... today that was down the brick pathway to the big yellow bus by herself.

How?

The same way we all do it... one step at a time. 

I can step out of the hospital room for a few moments or go home for a shower,
put her hand into a paraprofessional's for an entire day, or
visit that group home one day because I know and can trust...

The eyes that watch her from above are capable.. far more than me.

The invisible hand that guides her... is kind and powerful.

The heart that formed her... finds her perfect, exactly the way she is.

And I can trust He has a good plan for her life and loves her more than I could possibly imagine.