It’s quiet and everyone is sleeping. Everyone but me. I can’t get comfortable and my heart is heavy. So I quietly slip into the bathroom, fill the tub with warm water and bubbles and have a good cry. There is purpose in this season, but it’s hard to see it through all the messy bits. And so my heart just aches.
Maybe it’s because I’m the one who is always there. For every phone call, every confrontation, every poor choice, every meltdown, every hard lesson. I’ve heard from others that I would get to a point where I just don’t care, where I don’t feel the need to fight every fight and correct every mistake. But I don’t seem to ever get there, even after all these years of battle. Even though I’m exhausted, and broken, I can’t ever give up.
Once upon a time I was his world. His beautiful blues would sparkle at the sight of me. He would be thrilled to sit next to me, to show me the latest and greatest in his life. But that’s gone now. Time has shifted things, and now I’m just in the way. Now I’m just the one who doesn’t know anything. The one who rules with an iron fist. The boring one. I’ve watched his world since before he was born, and now his world is trying to squeeze me out.
I thought I was ready for these changes, but I wasn’t. I thought I would be stronger than this, but I’m not. The things he says to me break my heart, the things he does and mistakes he makes crush my spirit. Because understand this – this strange but wonderful thing – I remember the sweet child he once was, and I see the great man he could be.
If I was a sculptor, and he was my masterpiece, I’d take a mallet and smash this season right off. But that would be a mistake – the roughing out period is possibly the most important part of sculpting. While a mallet is a useful tool, any minor mistake could cause it to completely ruin the piece. And I’m no sculptor – but God is.
It’s a gift, really. To be able to see a glimpse of what he could be when God has finished the roughing out period and starts to finely chisel. All of these things that can be carefully removed by the Master Crafter. But it’s also tricky. Because while I may not be the Sculptor, some days I feel like I’m the mallet. One way or another, I’m directly involved in the roughing out period – and I’m feeling every strike, every blow, every scrape along the way.
Or maybe we’re just worked from the same block of stone. I’ve had a roughing out period too, long before his. I’ve been finely chiseled, but I’m still not a finished piece. Maybe when he’s being roughed out, I need some more chiseling. Maybe the purpose of his season is perfecting something in mine.
One way or another, we are in this together. Both of us just unpolished stone. Unfinished pieces, linked together by the Sculptor that gives us life. This season has a purpose – and I’m not going to give up. No matter how much we need roughing out, no matter how much work is ahead. He is worth every strike, worth the pain of every bit of stone that needs to be chiseled away.
Unpolished stone. Unfinished work. Forever intertwined, mother and son. One day made beautiful. But until then, we wait and work through this season.
3 thoughts on “Unpolished Stone”
Beautiful and heartbreaking. Bless you both XO
So very beautiful and true. My son’s are grown now, but I remember those days so well. And there are still times when God weaves our chiseling together, causes the prayers to mingle with the living. May you be encouraged as you walk with Jesus through these heavy days! Blessings to you!
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Loved this…beautifully written..