What A Mom Does in the Last Hour of the Last Day of Summer

On the last night of summer, I cried. 

I waited until first-day-of-school clothes were chosen and laid out for morning, until backpacks were lined at the door and  starlit prayers murmured over nervous sleep-seekers.

I waited until the teenager stopped checking Instagram and set his alarm clock with a moan, until the underwear was folded and the lunch boxes lined up on the kitchen counter.

I waited until the clock pushed twelve, and the first day of school hovered like a lion ready to pounce.

And then I cried.

I flopped myself on the floor in the dark of my finally-quiet-house, and I let my tears mingle with the brown footprint-stains on the carpet and the golden beams of moonlight dancing across the floor. 

I cried because those lunch boxes on the kitchen counter reminded me that our summer days of backyard picnics and late night grill-outs were over, and those backpacks hanging on the coat hooks in the entryway screamed of schedules and homework and checklists.

But mostly, I cried because those shiny new school shoes lined up by the front door were two sizes bigger than last year’s, and I still haven’t figured out how to lasso time. 

In the morning, my firstborn would walk through the doors of the high school, and my curly-haired girl would waltz into junior high.

The sensitive one who worries and wonders would navigate the halls of a new intermediate school, and that boy who once said he’d rather go to jail than go to kindergarten would place his backpack in a first grade locker and settle into his very own desk stocked with crayons and textbooks.

And although I didn’t know for sure, I was betting that when all of her siblings had gone, Bluebell would ask for the fourteen-millionth time when she could meet her teacher, too.

In the morning, when the coat hooks were missing four backpacks and just one Rapunzel tote hung patiently on its hook,  I’d remind my baby that in two weeks, she’d finally have the chance to go to school, too. 

Then, when my littlest girl did that happy dance across the living room floor and raced to check on her new pink school bag, I would try to swallow the bittersweet lump rising steady in my throat.

I’d try not to tell my expectant one that I feel like I just carried her home yesterday from the hospital in a blanket the same color as that rosy new backpack.

And if she pranced through the kitchen with that pink bag slung over her shoulder and reminded me that she needs to “practice for the first day of school,” I’d do my best not to mention how I wish I could step back in time and watch her toddle across the kitchen floor  with a proud wobbly grin just once more before she struts through the doors of her brightly-colored preschool classroom.

The floor creaked beneath the weight of my exploding heart, and in time, I couldn’t t tell where the crying stopped and the praying began.

Tears always usher me right into the throne room of God. 

My tears waned and I began to count the gifts of summer. 

Bare toes dotted with sand. Backyard sprinklers and early morning bike rides. Fireflies in glass jars. Hotdogs roasted over an open fire. Camp songs. Hiking. Laughter.

 I exhaled praise and inhaled grace, and stared at the inky shadows cast oblong across the floor where I lay; the shadows of those school shoes waiting patiently at the front door.

I forced myself to count even those murky silhouettes as a gift from the Almighty, and I let the aching beauty of surrender wash over me anew. 

Then, in the last hour of the last day of summer, I prayed for the wisdom to walk humbly beside those ten growing feet.

And I begged for eyes to see my Savior’s footsteps next to ours.

The carpet was damp; my legs wailed for rest.

So I took one last glance at that line of spotless shoes, and I asked God to make me brave.

Brave enough to embrace the firsts and the lasts and every gloriously ordinary step in between. 

Joining Ann for Multitude Mondays and counting these last summer gifts as grace…

2143. Families gathered in our

backyard to launch the kids back to school in prayer.

2144. A red carpet laid out on the grassy hill for our “superstars” to walk down… the fun of making God’s word come to life.

2145. Rob posted at the grill, serving, serving, serving. 

2146. Friends who understand the tears brimming quiet in my eyes.

2144. Loaves and fishes– a half dozen kids, 100 glasses of lemonade, and 1000 dollars for orphans in Africa.

2145. Teachers with radiant smiles 

2146. Soul sisters gathered in the Lighthouse to pray on a Saturday night.

Linking with Laura for playdates with God,  Jen for soli deo gloria, The Better Mom, The Mom Initiative, and with Sarah for Mom Notes, and Jen at Rich Faith Rising.