{for this son I prayed}

And just like that, I'm a part of the club.
It's a sorority of mothers.

Mothers who have walked the same road.

Juggled the same emotions.
Hidden behind dark sunglasses.
It's brave women who lovingly nurtured and protected and gave their very lives for the little ones beneath their wing---then when they were strong, released them to fly.

As we hurtle at breakneck speed toward the inevitable "launch day," I've been nothing short of awed at how God has surrounded me and hemmed me in with these remarkable women.
From all sides they've come---
fellow mamas, friends, sisters.
They remember,
empathize,
see,
know.
They remind me, they point me to Truth.
I've received unexpected notes in the mail,
out-of-the blue e-cards on the net.
One friend paid me a visit at work with flowers in hand.
Some offer sage words,
while others do nothing more than hug me,
their own eyes brimming with tears.
At a time when my own tears are so close to the surface and ready to fall at any given moment, there simply aren't words to communicate how strongly God has used these fellow mamas to minister to my heart.

He's used another mama, too.
I find I'm so hungry, so desperate for the Word of God.
When every mothering instinct in me is to hang on,
I find myself going to God's Word,
asking Him to show me how to let go and trust.
This morning my fingers paged to a familiar passage in 1 Samuel.
And there was Hannah.
Beautiful, grace-filled, faith-filled Hannah.
I remember claiming 1 Samuel 1:27-28 when our first son was born.
I even made a framed photo featuring this verse for his baby blue nursery.
Oddly, the words were easier then as I rocked my newborn babe close to my heart.
It was easy to say he belonged to the Lord as I snuggled him safely in my arms and inhaled his sweet skin.

But now,
now he's leaving me.
And the declaration of my heart so many years ago seems somehow challenged.
My natural tendency is to hold on; to take him back.
"No, God.  He's mine," I argue.
"I'm not ready to let go."

But I look at dear Hannah's heart and I regain focus.
In her distress and longing for a child, she prayed and wept bitterly.
She pleaded with God for a son,
vowing to give him to the Lord all the days of his life.
God answered her prayer,
and when Samuel was weaned,
she brought him to the house of the Lord.

"For this child I prayed, and the Lord has granted me my petition that I made to him. Therefore I have lent him to the Lord. As long as he lives, he is lent to the Lord.” 1 Samuel 1:27-28

I'm pretty sure I would have had second thoughts.
But reading this passage again this morning,
I'm challenged and inspired by Hannah's heart.
As she brought her beloved son, Samuel, to the house of the Lord, I saw myself bringing our own son to college next week:  releasing, entrusting, surrendering.
"You gave him to us, God.  He's yours.  You gave him to us for a time to train and nurture and teach him about You.  And now we're entrusting him solely to You.  Continue the work You began in him."

What strikes me most is what comes next.
There's no narration of Elkanah, Hannah's husband, prying Hannah's fingers off her son (like I'm envisioning for myself next week).
She's not seen being dragged away in distress
(though I'm certain there were tears).
They worshiped.
And chapter 2 begins,
"Hannah prayed and said,
'My heart exults in the Lord;
my strength is exalted in the Lord..." (1 Samuel 2:1)

So how do I let go?
How do I release?
In faith.
In worship.
In prayer.
In thanksgiving.

I'd prayed for this son.
God answered my prayers and my longings and blessed me beyond my wildest imagination!
And so I've dedicated his life to our heavenly Father.
For all of his days, wherever he is, he belongs to the Lord.