Sample Stories for Mothers

The feeling of terror creeps back into my life. But this time it concerns my son, not my former husband. However, the same elements are in place—the gun, the ever-present fear. I sit at my kitchen table and stare at the shards of light dancing in my coffee cup. The coffee is cold now. And the night wears on my nerves as I wait for my son to come home.
I cup my hands around the mug painted brightly with yellow daisies. Years ago, when he was little, my son gave it to me for my birthday. He was always bringing me flowers. Usually they were clenched in his small fist. Sporting a toothless grin, he would cheerfully say, “These are for you, Mama.” I would get down at eye-level with him and hug him tight. Then I would take the wilting wildflowers from his hand and place them in a jelly jar full of water on the kitchen table.
I pour the cold coffee into the sink. My heart breaks as I think back over the past few months. My teenager’s anger seemed to erupt over the least thing.
“This bike is no good!” I remember him screaming as he slammed the ten-speed again and again into the ground, until finally it lay in a crumpled heap. He worked so hard in order to buy the bike. But for some reason it didn’t operate properly, and he became furious with it.
I cringed at his foul language. And I feared his hostility. Another day, while in an angry rage, he rammed his fist through the basement door and then shattered the mirror in his bedroom. His drinking was becoming a problem, but I didn’t know what to do about it.
The anger was so terribly familiar. His father had the same hostility. It seethed for years under a cool exterior until he finally exploded and threatened my life with a loaded gun. My former husband’s life ended abruptly. He committed suicide while in jail for threatening his second wife. And now my son had stolen a gun from my bedroom closet, with the same anger boiling inside him.
I watched Jim, my husband, pace the living room floor. His brow furrowed in worry. “Where is he?” he asked.
I shrugged and glanced at the digital clock on the television. I, too, was exhausted from worry. “It’s 1:30 and we still haven’t heard from him,” I said.
For years I’d heard the phrase, “Let go and let God.” But I had worried for months about how to handle my son. Maybe it was time to turn my wandering son over to the Lord. But this time I knew I had to leave my child in God’s hands—instead of taking him back.
I sat at the kitchen table, bowed my head, and prayed. In that moment I felt a complete peace wash over me as I turned my son over to the Lord.
“I have put him totally and completely in God’s hands,” I told my husband. I crawled into bed knowing God was in control. A short while later, I felt my husband slip into bed beside me.
At 2 A.M. the ringing phone jarred us awake. Sleepily, I answered. The police officer on the other end of the line informed me that once again my teenager was in jail. This time he had started a fight with a bouncer in a hotel lounge. When the security people found that he had a gun, seven or eight police cars arrived, screeching, on the scene. I was relieved to learn the gun was unloaded, but it didn’t make the charges any less serious.
“I’ve been praying about this,” my husband said after I hung up, “and I feel a real peace about what I’m about to say. I don’t think we should bail him out of jail again.”
A lump stuck in my throat, and I tried to swallow. I knew, after all the times my son had been jailed for drunk driving, that my husband was right. But it was hard to turn away from my own son. Yet I had to put my trust in God and my husband—we would not waver.
When my son called the next morning asking us to put up bail, my husband simply said, “We are through bailing you out of jail. This time you’ll have to get out on your own.” My husband sighed as he hung up. “He’s mad,” he said.
I often wondered how a parent could not come to a child’s rescue. I had to learn the hard way that if I continued to shield my child from the consequences of his actions, he would never learn to take responsibility. And he would continue to get into trouble.
A few days later my son came home. He didn’t speak to either of us except to say, “I’m moving out.” He and a friend loaded his car with my son’s belongings and left.
Several months went by before I heard from him again. Then one day he drove into the driveway with a blonde-haired girl at his side. He was smiling as he and the young lady came into the house, and the four of us sat down in the living room to talk. I was delighted to learn he wanted to get married, and although I had some well-founded apprehension about his anger problem, I certainly hoped he and his future wife would be happy.
As the days, weeks, and months flew by, I began to see a profound change in my married son. The angry young man who had left our home seemed to melt away as he worked to build his own family. And eventually, to my great joy, he turned his life over to God.
On one of our first Christmases together after his marriage, my son drove to the store with my husband. The cab of the truck was almost silent except for the radio playing softly. My son broke the quiet with an unexpected question. “Can you ever forgive me for the pain I put you through?” he asked.
My husband smiled and put his arm around him. “I’ve already forgiven you,” he said.
I thank the Lord for bringing my wandering son home. And I thank my husband for having a forgiving spirit and also welcoming him home with compassion, just as the father of the biblical prodigal son did.
And, yes, my son still brings me flowers. That same Christmas, he brought a gorgeous poinsettia and set it on my kitchen table. And just like he did when he was little, he said, “These are for you, Mama.”

 

I suppose I thought it would last forever. What wonderful years we had. Rock hunting, picnics, Little League, band, basketball…and all the other fun things you do with your kids. Birthdays and holidays centered on our sons.
Of course we had our share of anxious moments. Trips to the hospital in the middle of the night for croup, and accidents in the daytime that required immediate attention.
One accident in particular is emblazoned on my memory. Our two younger boys were playing Blind Man’s Bluff. Lane, the youngest, being blindfolded, stumbled over a jagged rock, fell, and hit his head. A big knot appeared on his forehead, and my husband, Emmitt, took him to the emergency room immediately. The wound wasn’t serious, and so the attendants treated Lane and then sent them home.
When I returned home from shopping, I found Mark, our oldest son, in tears. Lance, our middle son, had apparently felt guilty about Lane’s accident, and he had disappeared. Next to the door was a note:
Dear Dad, I’ve run away. I cause too much trouble. Bye. Lance
We searched and searched. We drove up and down and all around, but no Lance appeared.
Finally the family dog sniffed Lance out; he was hiding behind the butane tank. Relief flooded my heart as Emmitt swooped Lance up in his arms and showered him with kisses.
Many mornings we awakened to find three lively boys in our bed. After the inevitable wrestling match, we would all end up in the floor in uncontrollable laughter.
When I caught them red-handed in the cookie jar, they tried to throw me off track. “Mommy, will you marry us when we grow up?”
I did not realize how quickly the years slipped by. Mark’s wedding came all too quickly for us. The hardest part for me hit home when I went into his room and opened his closet. The shock of seeing the bare, empty shelves triggered an outburst of tears.
The closet was empty—except for one tiny bowl. It contained his two front teeth, a cat’s-eye marble, two round pebbles for skipping on water, and a little rusty chain. I collapsed on the bed. Is this all there is? I pondered. Where had the time gone?
I struggled to let go, even though he was married. I expected our relationship to stay the same. I still looked at him as my little boy. Naturally we didn’t see him as much, and in my self-pity, I interpreted this as rejection.
Everywhere I turned, I saw reminders of him. The white paint still lingered on the red brick wall where he and his brother had had a paint fight. The paint finally wore off the dog’s fur, but it was still on the house to remind me.
I felt Mark had deserted his family…after everything we had done for him. I didn’t realize that he desperately needed his independence, the freedom to make his own decisions and be the man of his own household. I went around with my feelings on my shoulder, bandaged in a giant dose of “poor little me.”
By the time our middle son married, I had turned into a real clinging vine. I had caused him to be almost psychologically dependent on my husband and me. How I thank God he had an understanding wife who helped him mature, in spite of me. After his college graduation, they moved a thousand miles away. My heart ached until I thought it couldn’t hurt anymore.
“I can’t tell you good-bye!” I cried.
“But Mom,” Lance replied, holding me with all the might of his 6’4” frame, “a Christian never has to say good-bye.”
By this time, our youngest son, Lane, was graduating from high school. I told him, “Lane, when you walk across that stage, I’m going to run up there, grab you, and say, ‘That’s my baby!’”
Lane knew I wouldn’t dare, but he did something that graduation night that is forever sealed in my heart.
Emmitt, being the high-school principal, always announced each graduate’s name and then shook his or her hand. He had always treated our boys like any other student while they were at school, so he naturally was only going to shake Lane’s hand.
But when he announced, “Tony Lane Clayton,” amid the applause and cheers of the other students, Lane walked right up to his daddy, embraced him with outstretched arms, and held him close. I burst into tears.
A minister came to me after the graduation ceremony. “You must have a wonderful family. It is very rare to see a boy show such affection to his parents in public.” I cried again.
Two years later, I cried some more. Lane cried too. He had packed his car with all his possessions, ready to leave home.
“But why are you leaving?” I cried.
“You have been great parents, but it’s time for me to grow up.”
By now Lane had discovered through his brothers’ experiences that his independence could only be achieved away from me.
Looking back, I can see that in many ways my own emotional insecurity had forced my children to flee the nest. Unlike the eagle who pushes her babies out of the nest, I would have clung to them until the nest disintegrated.
It is still hard for me, even now with six grandchildren. It takes about a week to get over seeing them, wishing the time had not passed so quickly.
I have the same feeling every May when I tell my second graders good-bye at school. I think, Why didn’t I love them more and teach them less?
The boys are happy leading their own lives and I’m thankful. Sure, they make mistakes. When they first started to walk, we didn’t stop them, even though we knew they would fall sometimes. The same is true when they leave the nest. They are going to fall sometimes. How else can they learn? It goes against nature to try to keep them from developing. But by not letting them go, I was “stunting their growth.” Can you think of a mother cat carrying her baby kitten around by the nape of the neck its entire life?
As a dear friend said to me one day, “In order to keep them, you have to let them go.”
I have finally learned to put my children in God’s hands and trust Him. He loves them even more than I do. My role has now changed from that of being a parent to being a strong supporter and friend.
Now I can see that the many years I gave to my kids were not in vain. Now I can say to the world: “Look out, here they come! They’re going to make you better, happier, and sweeter. Why? They always knew they were loved!”

 

It was my thirty-fifth birthday—a day I had feared. It started with my five-year-old daughter, Abigail, as she bobbed up and down, tugging on my shirt. “Hurry, Mommy, hurry! Blow out the candles!" she had shouted. "And don’t forget to say a prayer," she reminded, her brown eyes alight with childish wonder.
"Say a prayer?" her grandmother asked. "What's that about?"
"Silly Grammy!" Abigail laughed, covering her mouth. "We say prayers instead of wishes! It's easy!"
The lights dimmed and the candles flickered. Several witty birthday cards on aging were propped beside the cake. Just last month, my older brother refused to celebrate his fortieth birthday. He had not wanted to be reminded that he was getting older. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. How many people, including myself, did that each year—becoming less and less thankful for the miracle of our lives?
I remembered Psalm 16:11: “Thou wilt make known to me the path of life; in Thy presence is fullness of joy.” I asked God to help me stand firm in what He had showed me the previous year during my friend’s battle for her life.
My daughter slipped her hand into my pocket, her tiny fingers finding mine. I rubbed her soft skin and sighed, remembering Susie. The mother of two and a wife of twenty years, Susie had been young and vibrant. She had a welcoming grin, a kind heart, and breast cancer. Violently sick from chemotherapy, she had lost her hair and begun a journey of pain and endurance.
Her husband, desperate for a medical breakthrough, had arranged experimental procedures but nothing worked, and Susie's condition worsened. Time passed but Susie refused to give up.
Those who knew her best began to doubt her life-and-death decisions. "Why is she doing this to herself?" they often asked. "She should accept the inevitable: She's going to die. She should stop the treatments and live the rest of her days as best she can. Can't she see that?"
I thought I knew the answer. I had joined together with a prayer partner, and we had diligently lifted Susie in prayer from the onset of her cancer. Everyone who loved Susie wanted what was best for her. Some chose the "live-your-remaining-days-free-of-medical-services" approach. Others continued helping her find new alternatives. Whatever their advice, Susie never wavered from one path—doing whatever it took to beat the disease. She continued medical treatment though her doctors told her there was little hope.
During Susie's struggle, at night when I cradled my newborn son, I often thought of her family that would be left behind if she died. Maybe it was because of how I loved my own children and husband that her battle affected me so greatly.
Looking at life through Susie's eyes filled me. A new humility and appreciation for each new day surrounded me. When my husband kissed me as he left for work, I'd linger in his arms a little longer. Every night, I'd kneel beside my children's sleeping figures and study their angelic faces—not wanting to take one second for granted. Soon, I began to ache for Susie, and during that time I realized why she'd continued on with such passion.
Susie knew the secret of life. And that secret, simply, was life itself.
She wanted another opportunity to laugh and enjoy her husband’s embrace. She wanted to witness her daughter's high-school graduation and her son's first prom. She wanted to see the glory of another sunrise and be in the world when her first grandchild entered it. Life was not a mystery but a miracle. And Susie knew that, right up until the moment when, on a crisp winter day, she died.
"Mama," Abigail said, pointing to the candles. "Hurry, they're melting!"
My husband, holding our precious son, Simeon, caught my eyes from across the table. He kissed the top of Simeon's head and then smiled at me. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach. Those whom I loved most were near.
Because of Susie's zest for life and faith in God, I've never seen birthdays the same way.
Anxiety didn't flood me at my first wrinkles. And since Susie's death, I've never bought an insulting birthday card again. Instead, I've embraced the joys and trials of getting older. After all, each birthday is one more year that I've been able to experience life's many jewels: jewels ranging from my children wrestling with my husband to my being awakened by a bird's morning song.
"Hurry, Mama! Hurry!" Abigail pleaded. "I'll help you blow them out!"
My son giggled, waving his hand at me, and my husband winked. "Let's do it," I told my daughter. We filled our cheeks with air and blew out the candles. The smoke traveled upward.
"Look, Mama! Look!" Abigail shouted, pointing a finger towards the ceiling. "The smoke's carrying your prayer to heaven! It's gonna be answered!"
Bending down, I cupped Abigail's beautiful face. Her eyes were beaming, and I inhaled the sweet scent that was hers alone. "It already has been, honey," I whispered, thanking God for another year. "It already has been."