All, Nothing, or an Imperfect Something

Mathäus had been gone a handful of days when we hit our first scheduling conundrum. We had set his first home visit two weeks out, but since he had been selected to play club soccer at school that wasn’t going to work; he now had his opening match that weekend, and since it was an away game, a trip home just couldn’t happen. That pushed out his visit to the following weekend… when Jack was scheduled to be away for a Civil Air Patrol event. The next weekend was no better. As a matter of fact, someone was pretty much always guaranteed to be coming or going.

Feeling miserable, I flung myself on my bed and started sobbing. (Yes, I actually do this. But only my husband is amazing and never bats an eye at my histrionics.)

“I’ve only had my whole family together for a handful of days ever, and now I won’t even have the ones in this country under the same room at the same time!” I cried. I grabbed my iPad and desperately began swiping through weekends on my calendar, looking for the first possible weekend we could have the perfect reunion on which I had set my heart.

It was in mid-October.

Before I could fall apart again, my husband gently reminded me of yet another of the truths that I suspect will guide this new season in our parenting journey:

We can put life on hold and wait for the picturesque All, but in doing so, we risk getting Nothing instead. Better— and healthier— to accept the imperfect Something.

I want to say that I immediately snapped to my senses and abandoned the vision I had already crafted of a sweet, family-focused weekend of watching the kids kick soccer in the side field while I brought a cobbler to the picnic bench, or of all of our voices again united in family worship. But I didn’t. I lamented the bittersweet hole that would be filled, for just a few days, in my heart, while I mourned the separate hole that would open. I grieved the loss of the sweet “full nest” feeling I had been hoping to touch again.

I did finally get there, to that place where I saw that I no better than Aesop’s The Dog and The Shadow, but it wasn’t until I actually heard my husband count out the extra days I was willing to add to my purgatory of waiting for Mathäus to come home. When I realized how foolish I was being in clinging to an imagined perfect that wasn’t promised, I felt sick.

Years ago, I promised myself that I wouldn’t be that mom. I wouldn’t set up expectations that my kids couldn’t fulfill because they had no idea that I had a scene already painted in my mind that they weren’t staging just right. I wouldn’t guilt them into compliance. I wouldn’t force my idea of family time on them. And I wouldn’t deny myself the joy of spending time with any of them simply because I wasn’t getting to spend time with all of them.

And here I was… just out of the starting gate, and failing miserably.

I didn’t realize when I made the vow to avoid the manipulative mom pitfall just how hard it would be to live up to the low pressure, come as you are, our door is always open, I understand if you can’t make it lifestyle I wanted to give to my children. I didn’t realize how much I would prize the thought of having every face accounted for around the breakfast table, how full my heart would be when I could look from left to right and see, right there, nearly every person I treasure most in this world.

I didn’t realize that though I feel Babita’s absence every day, there actually is more room for that specific ache in my heart, and maybe even a greater, deeper longing for everyone here, under one roof. I didn’t realize it could make me crazy, and unreasonable, and maybe even a little desperate.

Now I know.

This past weekend, Mathäus came home. He missed Jack’s departure by mere minutes. I had barely gotten past the tearful, “Be safe. Please. Make wise choices. I love you, and I’m praying for you,” goodbye I gave Jack (I told you I’m given to histrionics) when I was wrapped in the tearful, “Oh my goodness, I’ve missed you!” welcome I gave Mathäus. We went on with an imperfect Something of a weekend, all of us enjoying catching up and laughing and missing Jack. It was fun, and sweet, and lovely. Did I think of how much better it would have been if Jack were there, and how cherry-on-top perfect it would have been if Babita had suddenly knocked on the door? Of course I did. But for the most part, I praised God for the Something I had, and thanked Him for steering me away from the stubborn Nothing I had been willing to accept.

And then, a really awesome thing happened. Saturday afternoon, through a fluke set of circumstances, Jack had to return home. His trip being cut by 24 hours meant that I had one night, and one morning of nearly All. My perfect reunion? It happened despite myself.

We scattered after church, back to the routines that now define us. Christopher and Jack drove Mathäus back to Bryan (Jack wanted a few extra hours with his brother), and I took the rest of the crew to the Fair to drop off entries. Our goodbyes in the parking lot were less sober than just a few weeks earlier. The younger children rushed to hug their oldest brother goodbye, and the older three gathered for a sweet selfie that made me absolutely glow inside.

No one cried. Instead, I think we were all basking in the gift we had been given. Our Something turned into All, but even if it hadn’t, it was so much better than Nothing. I think it’s a lesson we’re all learning, together.