It’s Tuesday, the first day back to work and school following Easter, and while my cup is overflowing with work and responsibilities, my mind remains focused on the looks on my children’s faces this morning. Both turned downward, inward, eyes at a distance. It was a morning where screens were far more welcomed than hugs; where responsibilities were gaining weight by the moment; where school and friends were unwelcome and unavoidable.

The boys spent Easter with their Dad this year; the first time in their lives that I wasn’t actively planning and involved in their Easter celebration. Their Dad doesn’t ‘do’ holidays, though he’ll happily raid their Easter baskets and eat all of the best things (remember that year I bought my dairy-sensitive son a $14 dollar chocolate bunny so he could have the same as his big brother? yea – dad ate it first)…

When asked about how the holiday celebration and weekend went, they were relatively quiet; there were no hikes, probably no egg hunt, definitely not my longstanding tradition of a riddle-hunt to find their well hidden Easter baskets. Their auntie did her best, I’m certain; but there was no joy in their eyes, no sense of fun in the retelling of adventures. They’re getting old for the Easter bunny, but the hunt was always fun; the treats always appreciated. Not so, this year.

There’s another component to the underlying thread of hurt I can see in their eyes… a hurt that comes from never quite being able to heal, never quite being able to relax and feel the ground beneath their feet firm up.

…

When I think of transitions, I think of… the blurry line between salt water and fresh water deep beneath the crust of the earth in the caves of Mexico… if you are a fish, crossing that line can mean pain and death; as a human, equally deadly as you might think one is breathable air, and try to breathe the water when you are far too far below the surface to ever make it to the transition from wet to dry…

There’s the transitions between seasons, the very obvious shortened timelines that we often analogize to our own lifetimes; and in that we reflect on the joy of each season, but also the pain that comes with drought, frost, heavy rains and flooding, and so forth.

or, there’s the transition our own Lord underwent to rise again from death after battling Satan for our very salvation. His Holy transition from Life to Death to being our Risen Lord was painful in every measurable aspect that we, as humans, can imagine; and likely in ways we’re fully unaware of…

As humans, we see beauty in pain when viewed from a distance; we can step back and see a momentous thunder cloud and admire it for its awesome power and beauty. We can even admire the fractures in the earth after an earthquake. We can see death approaching and see the delicate beauty in fragile skin, clouded eyes, blue veins. When we live through it, when we hold it close, when we are faced daily to navigate it, then the beauty of that transition can only be seen when we have moved through it, beyond it, survived it. And yet, we fear it and run from it.

Transitions, I guess, are not meant to be without pain. We are always in flux as we flow through life, from sleep to waking, from birth to death. But there are supposed to be moments of safety and surety; a child should feel consistent love, a certainty of place, a bone deep knowledge of who they are and where they belong and who is their family.

When parents separate, for whatever the reasons are, we strip the children of that certainty and surety. We force them into an unwelcome and undesired transition far earlier than they are developmentally ready for. In homes where there is abuse, or simply non-stop pain, the transition may be judged as best for everyone; however, the pain inflicted upon the child is still a pain no one would ever wish up on them. In the best cases, parents continue to co-parent their children; putting the children first even as the adults’ lives shift and change. It can be done, with grace and compassion and love. With kisses, hugs, time and attention. Many parents have and do demonstrate how to separate and keep the world from collapsing around their children.

Not so, for my own children, however. For them, the world has become a very uncertain place of acrimonious parents who cannot and will not communicate. Who approach life from polar opposite worlds. They have a wealthy family to visit every couple of weekends, but that family is not responsible for them, doesn’t pay for their schooling, clothing, meals, transportation, and doesn’t make sure they have their basic needs met. Those responsibilities remain mine, and the boys are with me for far greater lengths of time than with their father (and for good reason – the courts evaluated with great care before making orders granting me far more time with the boys than is considered normal in a modern, blended family); and while I’m not impoverished, the home I offer to my children is far smaller and older, with stricter financial limitations than anything they knew or understood before I left their father and anything they witness when they return for visits.

So, they have to learn to navigate two worlds; one, in the large and grand country house they were raised in that no longer contains their belongings, and the other which is small and quiet and simple. The transition is hard every, single time. It’s hard on all of us, because I want nothing more than to see my son’s eyes sparkle with laughter and contentment as when he was a secure child with all of his basic needs met; I want nothing more than to be free to hug my boys and have my love be accepted and trusted. But, I will have to be patient and wait for them to complete the transition back to my home, for the tense shoulders to relax, for the confidence to return… and then I will watch and wait as the next transition approaches and the tempers return and the grim tightness in their mouths to firm up into a constant quiet stress.

Please pray with me, for me, and for my children:

Lord Jesus Christ, please guide and protect my children. Please guide their footsteps to remain on the path You have chosen for them. Please have mercy on me, their mother, for the decisions made to protect their young hearts and minds. Please give them laughter and love. May they hear a birdsong today and their souls lighten. May they feel a kiss from the Holy Spirit and be lifted. May they lift their eyes to the heavens and understand that You, our Lord, are there for them and that You are ever perfect and ever patient. May the painful transitions our Lord Jesus endured inspire in them a patience and love and care for others, as Jesus has demonstrated for us. ~Amen.