Before we moved, I had a conversation with my mom one day about how space and distance grows relationships. The before marked by obligation, the after carved out of mutual love, respect, and desire.
She talked about how healing it was for her to see dreams and traits of her own heart blossom within each of her daughters. It’s almost as if what the Lord plants in one generation, flowers in the next. And what joy for a mama’s soul to see that it is good. Oh so good.
I think of my dear mama’s words as my eldest sits down with her cello, which I’ve loved since the first time I heard its melancholy song. I think of the sweet storytelling, feeling heart of my youngest, hearts of my heart. Seeds planted, carefully watered.
And it’s so funny, because even the seeds planted in my own life so often come up unexpectedly. I think I’m tending something exotic and exciting like dahlias, only to realize I’ve actually been watering sweet corn. At first I’m disappointed, but then I realize what was sown can actually feed, can nurture, can grow another.
Such is the legacy of mothering. We do our best to ensure it doesn’t happen, but in the end our children turn out like us. And we have a choice – Do we allow our children to inherit our fears or our faith?
And so begins my first official book project. A devotional for mothers and their daughters. A book about confronting our fears, the monsters that live in our closets and under our beds, and embracing the life that Jesus so freely offers.
In the muted softness of Oregon’s winter, the rain waters my soul, unearthing projects and dreams and hopes all but buried under a blanket of busy. And so I say, let it rain.