9/11 and Being a Fire Mom

Seventeen years ago, our country was dealt a deathly, unfathomable blow.

Many of us are still dealing with it: Those of us who witnessed it on tv, the survivors who were there that day, the surviving first responders and volunteers, the families of the many victims.  There is so much trauma from what we all saw, and what some of us had to do that horrible day, and the days and weeks, and even months, that followed.  That was the stuff of our most unimaginable nightmares.

It has left some of us crippled by physical, emotional, psychological and spiritual pain, while it has also left many of us grateful for what we have, in every single day that has followed.

The anniversary always hits me with a pain I can't seem to bear.  I know I'm not alone.

This year it seems to be a bit more difficult, having Noah in the fire department, knowing this is the career he has settled on.  I know God has great plans for him.  We've raised Noah to care for others, and I know he will be the comfort people need in their worst hours.  However, this is the second most difficult thing I have had to do as his mom.  I don't know that I'm prepared to wear the title of 'firefighter mom," even as it leaves me beaming with pride, even as I don the hat.  Each time he leaves for a shift, I tell him, "Come back to me safely.  I love you," and I pray.  I pray hard.  I hit my knees on his behalf on a regular basis.  When he comes home, I hug him.  I hug him hard, I think him for coming back to me, and I send up the biggest prayers of gratitude.  As if he's come home from a war, not a 12 hour shift.  I have to trust him, his chief, and the other men and women in his department.  And of course, I need to trust God.

I've been emotional this past week, and just knowing what my son is getting himself into is enough to make me burst into tears.  I try to not think too much about what he is, and will be, up against.  This is the stuff of my worst nightmare.  When I look at him, I still my little boy.  I still see him playing dress-up and playing with his toy fire trucks.  I can't keep him safely wrapped up in my maternal bubble wrap forever.  I have cried in anguish for the mothers who lost their little boys, the ones they sent off to work that day, never to return. I have screamed at the unfairness of their losses.

My son is brave.  I admire him so much, and I'm incredibly proud of him.

I pray a lot so God will make me brave for Noah, and my two littles.  Goodness knows they won't have desk jobs, either.  Oh, the painful irony in that sentence.

Bravery isn't always bold and daring.  Sometimes bravery is timid and hesitant, doing what needs to be done even when you're scared out of your ever-loving mind.

Sunday morning, my pastor's wife prayed over me.  She prayed that I will learn to remove the unnecessary things from my overloaded, heavy plate, in order to make room for the important work, the important things, the important people.

Things I need to turn over to God.

WORRY.

ANXIETY.

FEAR.

INDEPENDENCE and DISTRUST.

DEPRESSION.  

ANGER and FRUSTRATION.

Worry, you are a time suck.  Anxiety, you are a crippling robber.  Fear, you are a liar.  Independence and Distrust, you are a thief of my dependence upon Abba.  Depression, you are a deep, dark pit.  Anger and Frustration, you are thieves of enjoyment.  They rob me of sleep, steal my enjoyment of my life, they run away with my relationship with my precious children and husband and Abba.  They fill my plate to tipping, making less room for the important work He gives me.

I will put my trust concerning Noah's future in my Abba.  My Abba is my refuge, my hiding place, my safe place.  He is where I put my boys--His boys--where I will continue to work on emptying my plate so I can concentrate on just loving them best.  In times such as these, I'm so grateful to have a loving, grace-filled, merciful Father to turn to.

"You are my refuge and my shield; I have put my hope in Your word."  

Psalm 18:32