On Being Left Alone

thoughts typed with eyes closed in the dark kitchen after waking from a bad dream

I had a dream this morning that reminded me that all my life I’ve been afraid of being alone. Afraid or grieving it. This isn’t the reason I had eight children. Because I was also afraid of dying. And every time I eased into the idea of opening myself up to have another child, I was also opening myself up to another possibility of dying. It took me many births to surrender the fear of death to God and allow him to carry me through all eight months of a pregnancy without fearing the pain and absolute lack-of-control that feels so close to death that you can almost see it there before you, as you breathe on one side of the world, all the while moving toward a shore where no one can carry you and no one else can go. But you go willingly because there is something you have to do. You have to bring a baby into this world, and you are the only person in the whole world who can do it. You have to go alone. And it is in being absolutely, wretchedly helpless and alone, you realize that God is with you.

I like being alone. Living in a houseful of little people, songs bouncing around from the keys of pianos and the voices of children, their bodies in constant motion, their feet pattering and pounding—it is a good life. But I get so tired of the noise and the mess. And the meals, shared with these people I love so dearly—all of them—a husband and eight children, stair-stepped as you would imagine, sitting around the table, passing food and talking and laughing and joking and crying and spilling and fighting just exactly as you would imagine it. Every day there comes a point where it is all too much and I have to retreat. And I want to be left alone. Because it is in being left alone that I remember that God has never left or forsaken me. His voice is often more audible in the stillness than in the whirlwind. It is in being alone I remember He is with me.

This moment is quiet, because I am up early, before the sun, after being wakened by a dream that my Rosie, my oldest daughter, moved away. How close the tears were to my eyes and how they spilled out when I moved closer to my husband in bed and said I had a bad dream and then spoke the words that let break the dam—It was sad because it is really going to happen. And he held me and I cried. 

I cried for the future me and for the past me—the little girl, the youngest in a family of nine children, that one-by-one, lost the people she loved. Not to death, but to age and college and marriage. Eventually also to death. But even as a child, I remember the losing. There were always people in my life. I was always loved. But the losing was hard.

I know now this was the first real grief of my life.

And I cried for the future me, who will have to learn to let go of these beautiful children God has given me. In my dream, I was trying to decide if my daughter, Paloma, should keep the room to herself or if Heidi should move in with her, but that would leave Azalea without Heidi, and it all seemed wrong. Rosie and Paloma were meant to be together. They had shared every experience of their lives. The room was built just for them. And now, Rosie would only be coming back to as a visitor. Oh, God. I can hardly write it.

Of course, in a few minutes, the whole house will be hungry and awake and there will be no time to think of a few years down the road. I will hear feet stirring upstairs, they will come down and find me, typing with my eyes closed in the dark kitchen. And I will wish to be alone so that I can empty my mind of these thoughts and somehow find peace in them. Or rather, find peace with God in the writing them out. But then it will be the business of living this day. The kitchen, the laundry, the open books at the table. 

In the quiet of this early morning, I see clearly how grace moves backwards and touches memory. I had forgotten the great sadness I felt as a child, my fear of being left alone. Memory had mostly swept up those sad things and set them neatly in the bookcase of my mind. Like journals that were never actually written. They are there in a library, titled by years or themes of my life. Age 15. The year my last sister went to college and left her room with posters all over the walls. By then, there was no other little brother or sister who needed to move up or move in, so the posters stayed a long time. There was an old home video of Mama, not saying anything, just walking around the room with the camera, videoing every single detail of that room.

Today is the day I want to call Mama and tell her about my dream. But she is gone farther than conversation can bring back. My sisters are here. But Mama is gone. This is a grief that hits me new this morning. I want to tell her that I love her and that I’m sorry I left, even though I know it was what she was raising me to do.

After all, what are we raising these children for—feeding them, clothing them, teaching and instructing them, praying for and calling out to God for them, showing them how to live—except for the actual living of a life that will take them away from us? Always with us. But away. Not the signing in the kitchen. Not the violin in the backyard. But farther than we can hear or know.

It is just hitting me this morning. I guess because my whole life has been this weird irony of my dread of being alone and my love for it. It seems that life is always pulling us to one side or the other, asking us to step over the line. Do we like being alone, well, here have it. Taste it and see what you really think. But grace isn’t like that. I come back to the now, now, now of the moment. Knowing this is the one that holds it all. All of the ache to be loved and held and known, as well as the longing to know and understand and find myself a part of a good story. I want to love wholeheartedly, without the fear of what it will cost me. I want to remember that truly, all of my fears and longings must submit to the life-changing truth: God is with me. He has never forsaken me. He never will.

*This is an excerpt from my journal, which I sometimes type with my eyes closed in the dark. I hope it was an encouragement to you today.

My book and companion journal (a blank 108-page, unlined journal with cream pages) are now available on Amazon. (These would make a great Mother’s Day gift!)k

From the blog:

Here are two of my most popular podcast episodes about birth:

Becoming Brave: Thoughts About Birth at 4 a.m.

Singing Out a Baby: A Birth Story

From the family archive:

I love this song that my husband, Randy, wrote. It is a reminder to me of the great comfort to me that God is with us.

See you next week.

Love,

Mackenzie