I sit at the kitchen table and listen to my children laugh. It’s dark and cold outside, but the air smells like cinnamon and their giggles wrap around my shoulders like a warm fuzzy blanket. The kids are together, all four of them. It sounds like they’re pretending to fall down the stairs and this is not a very safe game and it will very likely end up with someone in tears or needing medical attention, yet for the moment, I let it be. 

Because this, this getting along, doesn’t happen very often. 

I pause to breathe it all in, to capture their voices in my mind. I revel in their words, kind and encouraging and cooperative. I treasure that their hearts, at least momentarily, are for each other. 

I want to hold onto this feeling. 

Keep it safe, like a key that could unlock the future. 

***

My brother and I are two years apart. Growing up, we were playmates and coconspirators, spending hours outside roaming the neighborhood with the other kids that lived on our street. He was also the first (and only) person who has ever punched me in the face.

My sister and I are seven years apart. She started kindergarten the same year I entered middle school. She was a doll to dress up, not a friend in which to confide. 

Growing up, I wasn’t bad, but I got in a lot of trouble. I tested the boundaries of our conservative upbringing. I wanted to know: Why why why? And other times, Why not? I was quick to point out inconsistencies. To roll my eyes. To push against anything that felt abrasive or didn’t make sense. I was the only child my mother once slapped across the face. 

***

I need to say this clearly: my kids can smile nice, sure, and they are nice, yes, thank you. But they challenge me and push me and drive each other mad with incessant competition and independence and I’m-going-to whistle-this-song-in-your-ears-for-five-hours-straight. They pick, and poke, and provoke.

I’ve read the books on rivalry and peacemaking and even though a part of me wants to say They’re just kids! my heart hangs heavy when I admit how much they fight. And too often, I not only feel like I’m the only one, but that I’m the one who has failed them. That their childish behavior is a reflection on me. That it’s my fault. I mean, it is, isn’t it? Maybe if I were more strict? Or less strict? Maybe if I prayed more, or did the better thing the better way? 

***

My mother died years before I ever thought of having kids. My main concern at the time was what college to go to, not which pacifier to use. But as time passed, through pregnancy and birth, holding infants and cutting grapes for toddlers, there was so much I didn’t know. So much I felt at a loss with.

Are they normal? Will I make it through this? Am I doing the right thing? What is the right thing? 

I just wanted to know what she’d say. I just wanted her to tell me we’d all be okay. I just wanted to be her friend and say I’m sorry for being such a bratty kid. 

***

I live six hours away from my brother and sister and months go by between times we see each other. In the last couple of years, we’ve started a ridiculous habit of taking pictures together, just the three of us. It’s not bad, just funny—at least to us—which is really the only requirement for any good family tradition. We take what seems like thousands of pictures of our kids, and then grab one of us. Brother, sister, sister. 

It’s like we’re capturing proof. 

Look, we’re adults now. We love each other. We turned out alright. 

***

In the early 70’s, my mother moved across an ocean to marry my dad and had me, her oldest, seven years later. Long-distance calls were expensive and flights back to Europe out of the question. She mothered without her mother, practically speaking, too. My guess is that she had her own overwhelming concerns about us, her three kids, as we grew up doing our own picking and poking and punching. 

Will they ever stop fighting? Will they ever get along? Will they ever live with love and kindness in their hearts?  

When my mom was diagnosed with an aggressive terminal cancer, I can’t imagine all she held in her heart during those short months before her death. Namely, the questions about us: Will they make good choices? Will they love? Will they be drawn to faith?  

For all that it entails, Will they be okay? I imagine her thinking: If I have no choice about dying, at least tell me that. 

***

This is what we all want, don’t we? Some guarantee. 

We just want to know: Will this work? Will it pay off? Will all the time and energy and effort give me my desired results? 

As a mother, it starts early. We believe avoiding salami will ensure our health during pregnancy. That smashed avocados and the black and white mobiles will make our kids smarter. We want vaccines to prevent illness, car seats to protect from accidents. We think sharing a room will ensure connectedness.  

We want prayers to create preachers.

Music to inspire missionaries.

And Bible reading to lead them to faith. 

Of course we have decisions to make and responsibilities. But none of the outcome is really up to us. 

Our faith cannot be in ourselves. 

Like this night on the stairs, I have moments where I see glimpses of what my children will be like together as siblings. But we’re living so much of life right now in the tension of my hope for the future and our reality of right now. Am I doing this well enough? Right enough? Good enough?

But here’s what I know: trusting in myself, in my own efforts, in my own understanding, offers no guarantees. 

But trusting in the Lord, the God of creation, the all-knowing, good, and sovereign one? This is where I can place my hope. 

Yes, I want my kids to grow up and stop teasing each other and stop almost-touching each other and instead be friends, confidants, allies. I want them to call me when they feel lonely and hug me for no reason when they grow up. I want them to do a thousand things mothers hope for their children.

I can’t know what will happen with my children. 

Even so, I believe.