Where Our Hands Cannot Follow

There comes a point in motherhood when loving them well means trusting God with the places we can no longer follow.

This past week, I moved my youngest daughter back to college to begin her third year.

By now, we know the routine. The car is packed beyond all reasonable capacity. Boxes are carried upstairs. Clothes are hung. The bed is made. The refrigerator is stocked. There is inevitably something forgotten, followed by a trip to Walmart—and quite possibly another trip to Walmart because apparently preparing for college requires the logistical support of a small military operation.

And then, eventually, there is nothing left to unpack.

Nothing left to organize.

Nothing left for Mama to do.

That may be the hardest part.

Because motherhood begins with being needed for nearly everything. We hold their hands to cross the street. We pack lunches, sign permission slips, sit beside sick beds, cheer from sidelines and wait up for the sound of the front door.

For years, so much of loving them is doing.

And then, almost without noticing, loving them becomes letting them do.

Letting them make decisions. Letting them navigate difficult days. Letting them find their people, discover their strengths, make a few mistakes and learn that they are capable of getting back up again.

We spend years preparing our children to leave the safety of our arms—and then are somehow surprised by how much it hurts when they do exactly what we raised them to do.

Perhaps that is why this verse feels particularly tender today:

“The Lord shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in from this time forth, and even for evermore.”— Psalm 121:8

What a promise for a mother's heart.

I cannot be there for every going out and every coming in anymore.

I cannot know every road she will travel, every person she will meet, every decision she will face or every moment when she might need the comfort of home.

But God can.

His presence does not stop at the edge of campus.

His protection does not depend upon my proximity.

His plans for her are not limited by what I can see, anticipate or control.

And perhaps there is grace in remembering that our children belonged to Him long before they were entrusted to us.

We are given the extraordinary privilege of raising them, teaching them, loving them and preparing them. But we were never asked to write every chapter of their story.

God already holds the pen.

So, when the boxes are finally unpacked and there is nothing left to carry upstairs, we do what mothers have done for generations.

We hug them a little longer.

We remind them to call.

We get into the car before the tears have the opportunity to make a complete spectacle of us.

And we pray.

We pray over the room we just left.

We pray over the friendships being formed, the professors who will teach them, the roads they will travel and the decisions they will make.

We pray for wisdom when we cannot give the answer.

Courage when we cannot hold the hand.

Comfort when we cannot give the hug.

And faith enough—for them and for us—to trust the One who goes where we cannot.

Because maybe sending them out into the world was never really about learning how to let go.

Maybe it is about learning where to place what we are holding.

Into the hands of God.

Our hands may have to let go. Our prayers never do.

And that is today’s Grace Note.

With open hands and a praying heart,
Emily