Mom, I see you.

I know what you are going through.

I know what you are feeling.

You may think that you are alone, but you’re not.

I’ve been there.

Really.

I have walked in your shoes.

Your heart is breaking. It feels as if you are losing your mind.

How could things have gone so terribly wrong?

Where is the precious child I brought home from the hospital so many years ago?

What is happening? Why is this happening? Where did I mess up?

I don’t know the details of your struggle,

but I recognize that look on your face,

the sheer terror, the grief, the deer-in-the-headlights gaze.

Your body aches from the inside out. You are tired.

Tired of fighting

Tired of trying

Tired of doing everything you know to do only to feel again and again like you have failed.

I get it. I know.

And for so long, I thought I was all alone.

I thought my family was the only one who looked one way to the outside world and another inside the four walls of our home.

I thought that all those other families walking into church on Sunday morning would cringe if they knew.

They look so perfect sitting next to one another on their pew, singing the right songs, saying the right words.

Then one day, it occurred to me.

That’s the way we look too.

We looked like we had it all together, but so often I knew that I was falling apart.

I was swimming in the dark currents of the unknown,

sinking,

drowning.

Because, let’s be honest,

We don’t know.

We don’t know how it will all turn out.

No matter how good we think we did,

We can’t control the outcome.

We don’t control our children’s hearts; there is only so much that is within our control.

So, we put on a smile and go about life as if nothing is wrong.

And in the good moments,

when we sit around the dinner table talking,

when we go to the movies and eat popcorn and drink slushies,

when we laugh until our bellies ache,

we thank God and we try to imagine life always this way.

And in the quiet moments,

in the shower,

laying in bed at night,

on the car ride home,

we pray and plan and try to think

about all the things we can do that will keep things good or make things better.

But always, always we’re holding our breath,

afraid to let down our guard,

because we’ve been here before.

And we know

it’s just a matter of time before it all hits the fan,

Before the waves come crashing down

Before we realize again that nothing works.

We can’t just kiss him and make it better.

We can’t just tuck her in for a little nap.

Whatever it is that is haunting our children is not going to just go away.

And we bury our heads in our hands in despair because

WE

JUST

DON’T

KNOW

WHAT

TO

DO!

I see you, Mom. I know.

I’ve been there too.

Some days, I’m still there.

I’m right there with you.

I promise. I am.

I wish that I could give you the answers...

The answers to your daughter’s insecurity

The answers to your son’s anger

The whys and what-fors regarding those uncontrollable outbursts of emotion

Or the long hours, days, weeks of complacency

I wish I could tell you how to make your child feel better,

act better,

do right,

want to succeed.

I wish I could make them understand how much you love them and how much God loves them.

I wish that I could snap my fingers or say the right words to bring healing.

But I can’t.

I can’t do it for myself, and I can’t do it for you.

We don’t always get the happy ending.

And that, truly, breaks my heart.

Because I hurt for you and with you

And I want to do something, to give you something.

So, since I can’t make it better,

I give you myself—my story—and my prayers.

That is my gift

So that you know you are not alone

Because it’s not just me that knows.

It’s not just me that understands.

The God who made you and your child hears your cries.

He sees your battles.

He knows your heart,

and He loves you.

He loves me.

Hear me.

He loves us, and He does care.

He really does.

It may feel as if He doesn’t, but I promise you He is there.

He is whispering to you in the chaos.

He is holding you tightly in the dark.

He knows the pain of living in a fallen world, the turmoil of free will,

and He has not abandoned you or your child.

Cling to Him, Mama. Hold on tight.

When you feel as if you are being washed away by your child’s anxiety,

pulled under the current of your teenager’s angst,

swept away by your daughter’s bad choices,

pulled apart by your son’s depression.

Remember

God is our rock,

our shelter,

our hiding place, and

our saving grace.

He sees you, Mama.

I promise.

You are not alone.