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  • Writer's pictureDeena

A stitch in time is cause for celebration.

I hand him his sweater and he hands me a caramel iced coffee.

Trained him well I have.

A few days before he had asked me if I could repair a hole in the front before his big week.

I told him I COULD, but it would still show. I wasn't into the weaving business and could do my best but he needed to know that you would still see where the hole WAS.

He was okay with that.

He dropped it off in my room and it went from pile to pile until he asked me again if I was going to be able to fix it in time.

I laughed it off and gave him the "how dare you doubt me," Mom look, but honestly I wasn't looking forward to figuring out how to make that presentable again.

Moments before hitting the road for a milestone trip, I find the string, the time and even find my daughter because the eye of the needle has gotten smaller and I have gotten older.

At our first pit stop I hand it to him- folded Marie Kondo style, and he is amazed. Poor thing had almost given up hope on this sweater, but in true Mom like fashion, I slid in at the last, like handing off a forgotten school lunch at the bell.

And we pass Toledo and a tidal wave of emotions hits.

We have laughed and talked and I've even wished the Fall to come soon because this son is like a caged animal at times, just wanting to spread his own wings. I have wished him gone for the frustration of growing so often that I cannot even keep count.

And I am ready for it. I welcome it, and today I celebrate what is coming.

The emotions began to flow under the surface last night like a slow lava after talking to a friend.

Her sweet Mom is in for the birth of her baby and it's always a precious thing to see. She herds her little ones, cooks her meals, comforts, prays and celebrates her only daughter. This is indeed precious to see, but it hasn't always been precious feeling.

When I spoke to her on the eve of her new little one, reminding her what a blessing it is to have such a heritage, I felt something in the pit of my stomach release. That hard thing between the Lord and I, that deep missing, was gone.

I mentioned it while stirring Sunday lunch almost as an afterthought to my husband and he stops to make it bigger than I am making it to be, and it IS to be celebrated. It is finished.

And Toledo rushes by the window and the tears just won't stop. So much so that I cannot even drink my iced coffee, and that's saying a lot friends.

And it all bubbles up.

This celebration, this understanding, this precious thought.

And of course, one solitary McDonalds napkin is all I have to try to make myself presentable for the other five who are wondering if I have finally come to the end with all of the packing and planning for this week.

It only takes a few nose swipes to conclude that these napkins make amazing exfoliators. I might have a brand-spanking new nose when we finally reach our destination.

And I message a friend instead of call for fear she will hear me and think someone has died, telling her that the Holy Spirit is reminding me that I am that Momma now.

The one who loves, prays and celebrates.

It kinda just came out of Toledo to me, I tell her.

She knows me well enough to take this information and read between the lines.

And I am wondering about all of the holes I have left.

The ones I have tried to patch to the best of my ability but have left weird marks showing where the holes were.

Holes in schooling, in my daily instruction in God's words, in my own faith-walk, in my words, in my impatience... so many that there would be no garment left to wear.

And I shed about a bucket full of tears and hope beyond all hope that my McDonalds chaffing can be covered-up before the first rest stop.

The Holy Spirit reminds me of a sweater I had as a grade-school girl.

It was a beautiful dark blue knit with a laced white collar and an elegant red cursive "D" right on the middle. It was a prized possession to me. I remember wearing it for school pictures and smiling with my lost tooth showing and not even thinking another thing about it. I was so proud to have my "D."

What I was hiding was a huge hole under the right arm that came after the first or second sister enjoyed it before me. Our family enjoyed the letter D.

No matter, hole or not, it was mine and it made me feel so special.

No one knew that hole was there except for me.

Psalm 147:3 reminds me, "He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds."

There are no holes so big that God cannot bind them up. Repair them just in time for our picture day.

I am forever amazed at how the Lord takes such care with this heart of mine:

"The Spirit of the Lord GOD is upon me; because the LORD hath anointed me to preach good tidings unto the meek; he hath sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and the opening of the prison to them that are bound;" Isaiah 61:1

He who never sleeps knew that I would need to seem him in Toledo today. I would need to hear from His Word and need to reach out and have some anchor to just get me to Indiana.

I would need his shoulder to cry on, and I would need reminded of holely sweaters, his repairing, and also of his grace that covers every inch of broken parenting.

I read recently that when you cry out of happiness, the first tear drop comes from your right eye, when you cry out of pain it comes from your left.

My right eye has started it all.

All this realization, all this need for celebrating what God has mended and what I am grateful to be able to mend today.

So today I will celebrate being THAT Mom.

I will remember that I cannot be perfect though I still try.

I will probably be the instagram Mom snapping pictures, watching him head to his interview with his sweater on, but that's okay.

I am the Mom who can mend a bit here and there, and can hand the really hard sweaters to an all-knowing, gracious Father who can fix what I cannot.

What a week of celebration for me.

And if you are in the state of Wisconsin and want to slip me a box of PUFFS PLUS I'd love you forever.

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