Kenny is reading Lone Survivor. He and I officially sat down last night to watch the movie based on this book. What ensued inside my person from viewing this theatrical documentary was completely unaccounted for. It was as if my heart, fully attached to my guts, in one turbulent motion, was ripped and shredded with the dramatic account of this story of battle.
I am naive because I choose to be. Because I am a fragile bottomless pit of emotion daily in the trenches of my civilian life. Because I am a mama to 2 growing boys who, in a blink of an eye, will be men. My men. And all I want for them is safety and smiles. And with that lofty wish, I exhale an unsolicited breath of "they're borrowed." Yes, one even louder and more unwarranted escapes my lungs, "They are not your men. They're mine." I know all too well it's His air moving through my respirations whispering this paradoxical reality. The beloved yet foreboding feeling. That notion I cling to on this earthly soil I call motherhood. Borrowed.
It's freeing. The idea that their story is undoubtedly His call. That my sons' presence on this globe has purpose and a plan much greater than me. I take refuge and find strength lying face down pressed flat on the cool, marbled surface of our savior. Turning cheek to cheek there on the hard ground of parenting, I find refreshment through the smooth stone of Him. He knows their deal. Forever. And I know their breakfast for today. He understands their hurts 10 years from now. And the balm to soothe them too. The people they will need and the prayers they will cry out. And me? I know their underwear drawer is empty from last week.
And yet it's so frightening. To know that my safeguards are really temporary. That their call to arms will come. And His holy will press their passions into a place called destiny. To a place where their actions will be His calling. Regardless of whether their life lends itself to the battlefield or behind the business desk, a mama can never fully ready herself for the men who are to spring from her womb. She's not capable. At least I'm not. In truth, I want them capsuled. I want them safe. I want them here forever.
This film. It evoked emotions buried deep in the reservoirs of my person. It called on feelings like freedom and fortitude. I sat beside courage and cried out as I watched mothers' sons defend our country full on and with whole hearts. I gripped conviction for fight. For valor and for brotherhood. My mind moved outward into tiny tucked away places where little boys' heavenly stories are told in countries anything but free. I ached for the anger that rages and the injustice that contaminates these 3rd world countries and our own. I sat. I sobbed. I saw real through a dramatic portrayal of duty and service.
Kenny and I watched all the bonus features. It was important for both of us to see these actual soldiers in the best real time available. I needed to look into the eyes of the mamas who breathed out the same unsolicited breath I whisper. "They're borrowed." I yearned to know more about the fallen who have given me the opportunity to live in a land called free. I thought about their fierce commitment to service and called on God with thanksgiving for creating courage. For creating freedom. For building men of integrity and for being the storyteller and the call maker for us all.
Flat faced, I press into the cool of Him. There on the marbled stone, I lay down my fears. Of the unknown. Of my sons' stories yet to be told. And it is there on my savior's solid surface where I breathe in freedom. It is where I find courage and feel his borrowed. "They are not your men. They're mine." I hear you, Lord.
