Running Away
“Suffer the Children”/“Let the Children Come Unto Me” (Detail) by Carl Bloch, 1800s
Yesterday, my son ran away from me at the park.
I was across the wide playground, trying to pull the 2-year-old from what would have been her fourth round of swings. I could clearly see my four-year-old son playing with some friends. And then, in the horror that only a mother knows, I watched as he suddenly bolted over the grass, toward a side street and parking lot. It was a ways off, but he wasn’t slowing down. I know my son. I could tell he wasn't stopping. One of my friends offered to hold Sienna but there was no time. I hobbled as fast as I could with a solid, squalling toddler on my hip and an already sizable 16-week-baby bump. I screamed at Max to stop, over and over.
One side of the street was clear—for now—but I couldn’t see if there were cars coming from the other direction. My view of the street was obstructed by trees, a building, a row of portable park toilets.
I was so far behind him.
I watched, powerless, as he didn’t stop—or even pause—at the street. He beelined straight across, into the parking lot. I was still screaming and scrambling. I was still so far behind. Why wouldn't my my leaden legs go any faster? I neared the street. A red minivan had stopped for him—for me. I threw the driver a frantic, grateful glance and wave.
Our big SUV was parked at the closest end of the lot. He was slowing down. Or I was catching up. We reached it at almost the same time. I grabbed his arm. He was crying and doing his potty dance. I balled him out on the spot, and for the next ten minutes in the car.
By God’s grace we were all ok, but I was mad, scared, shaken. I couldn’t get out of him whether he had taken off because he thought we had left him, or if he had to go to the bathroom, or for some other reason. He kept changing his story and insisting, “Sorry, Mommy—I won’t do it again.”
I'd already lost my temper; I didn’t have it in my heart to punish him further. But I also wasn’t sure he wouldn’t run again. It was a habit for him, lately, and it was getting dangerous.
When we got home, I decided he needed to know what would happen if he got hit by a car. I’d warned him before that he'd be hurt. That message was clearly not getting through. How does a mother explain the risk—serious injury and death—to a 4-year-old?
I told him, “Son, you’d be crushed.” He asked if that meant he wouldn’t get to eat. I told him, no, he’d be dead, gone from earth forever, never coming back to our family. This was too much for him. His sweet face fell. He began to cry. He blurted, “and then you’ll have to throw Max in the garbage?” But it wasn't funny; it broke my heart.
I knelt by him, hugged him, tried to explain that we would never throw him in the garbage. He wrapped his arms around me, buried his head in my shoulder. I told him we loved him, we wanted him always here with us, in our family, where God had placed him, where he belonged. I told him we could not let him run away because he would not come back to our family if he got crushed by a car. He pulled back into look at me and his face back into my hair as he sobbed, “and then you’d have to get a new Max—from the store?” My heart shredded. I said, “no, no, we can't get another Max. Max is irreplaceable.” I told him we never wanted to get another Max. We just wanted him. I told him that God had made only one Max, and he was it—the only Max for us. That we wanted to keep him, forever.
And for the rest of the day I hugged him often, and for as long as he would let me. I held him throughout the afternoon and evening, and later, at night, in his bed. We cuddled while saying his night prayers and, as usual, he fell asleep before we’d even finished, before he could hear me end with, “Goodnight. I love you Max.” But I could hardly uncurl myself from him. I could hardly leave him—I continued to hold him and whisper to him as if he were awake.
I wanted him to know, again, how much I loved him, how much he was wanted, how much he belonged in our family. He was snoring softly but I told him for the second—or third—time that day, that he was irreplaceable. That he was part of our family, forever. That we were so glad God had brought him to us. I told him, again, that I loved him, that I never wanted him hurt or gone. I told him he mattered to me, to our family.
These were things I hadn’t said out loud before. They were things that needed to be said. And said again. Until each one of my children knows, without a doubt, that he or she is deeply loved, cherished, and wanted. I am their mother. More than anything, I want them to run to—not from—these arms of love. I wondered: how long will I have to wait for them to fully understand… and obey?
It would utterly break me to lose a child. I don't think I could recover from the pain of that loss. And yet, my children—and every other human on this earth—belong first, foremost, and forever to God. He is the Author of life on both heaven and earth. But do I trust Him with this—with my life, my husband's life, the life of my children?
As I offered this whole situation to the Lord, it hit me: I, too, am still running recklessly away from my heavenly parents. I ignore the commands of God the Father, the love of Mama Mary. I have a bad habit of chasing my will, without concern for the spiritual dangers of sin and the eternal death it brings. And like Max, do I comprehend anything of the way I belong—the way I am so deeply loved and desired—within my heavenly family? How long until I stop running from the Father? How long until I fully understand… and obey?
Romans 14:7-9
None of us lives to himself, and none of us dies to himself. If we live, we live to the Lord, and if we die, we die to the Lord; so then, whether we live or whether we die, we are the Lord’s. For to this end Christ died and lived again, that he might be Lord both of the dead and of the living.
Matthew 10:28-31
And do not fear those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul; rather fear him who can destroy both soul and body in hell. Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? And not one of them will fall to the ground without your Father’s will. But even the hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear not, therefore; you are of more value than many sparrows.
