I heard a story today that squeezed my heart.
A man was talking about a recovery center he'd served at several decades ago. A troubled teenaged pregnant girl had come to stay at the center for a few weeks. She wanted an abortion. And she wanted to kill herself.
She did her time at the recovery center, then went back to the real world. New patients moved in and out of the center and years went by.
Today, the man recieved a letter from his former patient, who is now a middle-aged woman. She'd left the recovery center as a healthier person. She had her baby. A boy. She was a loving mother and she raised her son to be a caring young man. He even became an Eagle Scout.
They recently visited the beach, and while they were there, a boy was swept out by the current into deep water and was drowning.
Her Eagle Scout son ran to the water, swam out and rescued the boy.
In the process, her son drowned.
This mom wrote a letter of thanks to her former counselor. She was so thankful for the impact he'd made on her life and for the gift of time she'd had with her son.
My reaction to the story was far different. I do not have the same open hands concerning my children. I want safety and security for them. A good job. A wonderful spouse. Happiness. A full life.
I do not want their lives sacrificed in anothers' place.
I want them to make a
difference in this broken world, but the kind of difference that they write a book about. Tell stories that inspire others. I DO want them to save lives, but I want them to be safe while doing it. Get a boat! Throw out a flotation device! Don't lose yourself!
Be safe.
I am learning that safety is a mirage. A wishful hallucination of my desire to control. I KNOW I am powerless to
really keep them safe. But, oh, I want to.
I need to let go.
I need to trust.
I need to rest in the fact that grace is enough.
That it will be enough.
