reconciling things

When this child was born, in my bed, in the bleak midwinter in Ulaanbaatar Mongolia, my midwife from New Zealand stood over me, watching me give. I received him into my own hands and I laughed. She said, “I’ve never seen anything like it. If everyone had a birth like this, they would wonder what the fuss was all about.” This isn’t a flex. This is a grace. And I know full-well that I am completely unworthy.

He was the funniest child from day one. As soon as he could talk he learned to burp the alphabet. He would tell jokes, attempt breakdancing, or pull any prank. If he thought it would make me laugh he would be about it.

He was the first child to send us to the ER. (A dislocated elbow from jumping on the bed after specifically being told not to jump on the bed.) When he was about three years old we bought him a Superman cape. It had a hood–macho libre style. He thought he was superman. He would don his cape and would jump off any service. Chairs. Tables. Shelves. Couch. It did not matter. He was genuinely surprised every single time that he did not fly. He spent a year or more with a black eye, fat lip, bruises. And I spent a year or more on my toes, constantly on high alert to catch Superman. Never once did an injury deter him from his belief in his power of flight.

One day he decided he liked Spiderman. I remember an argument he had with his uncle once. The uncle said, “Who is the best superhero?” And Lucas said, “Spiderman.”

“Why?”

“Because he has webs.”

“But Superman can actually fly.”

“But Spiderman has webs.”

“Yeah, but Superman is faster than a speeding bullet.”

“But Spiderman has webs.”

“But Superman can see through walls! Xray, vision, man!”

“But Spiderman has webs.”

“OK, but Superman actually reversed time and by changing the earth’s rotation!”

“But Spiderman has webs.”

And so it went. And Lucas won. Of course he did.

Lucas wins most of the time, even when he fails. He wins because he possesses this absolute audacity to believe that he can succeed at whatever he attempts. And if things flop–if he falls instead of flies–he just gets up, nurses his bruise for a moment, and then tries again.

He isn’t afraid of no. He would ask anyone anything. He would ask for a job, an opportunity, a second helping, a favor, or a girl’s phone number without a hint of embarrassment or trepidation. In his mind all they can say is no and if he doesn’t receive it is because he didn’t ask. He may as well try. When he was five years old he put on a full suit to go to church and gave the pastor’s daughter a flower and a ring. Just try to talk him out of it. Not a chance. His heart has always had more love and enthusiasm to give–sometimes more than the world has been prepared to receive.

He has never been afraid to get his hands dirty and has always been completely unafraid. Whether it is digging in the dirt and creating garden beds to grow food for the family or helping me processes hundreds of chickens, he’s the man who is down for whatever. In conquering nature, he has faced his own human nature. Early on he faced the trauma of his childhood with resolution to be different than the example of masculinity he was shown. He embraced therapy and accountability and the Sacrament of Confession. He found peace and strength in the Liturgy. He decided what he wanted his life to be and he set about it make it so.

It was a shock to no one when he moved out when he was 17. Some 17-year-olds could not handle it. I didn’t worry about Lucas. He has always had an inner light and conviction that even if things got messy he would fight his way back.

Today this child set out on a new adventure. He’s moving. Far, far away. I guarded myself against saying things like, “Why do you want to leave me?!” and instead said, “I’m so proud of you.” Instead of “Why do you have to go?!” to say “I know you are going to do marvelous things.”

I know that inside this 20-year-old young man is that three-year-old in a cape who has the audacity to believe he can fly. The thing is, I believe it too. I believe it with all my heart. He is jumping off the proverbial back of the couch, unafraid, as usual. If he is afraid, he holds it with delicate tension and makes his emotions subject to his will.

The hard part lies with me. It is my job now to do the hardest thing a mom can do: Let go.

He will fly. I will cry–but not because I am sad. I will cry because it is beautiful to watch someone soar who was always meant to, who has always had the gift of flight.

We need, in love, to practice only this: letting each other go. For holding on comes easily; we do not need to learn it.”

Rainer Maria Rilke