Today I got up and made a school lunch for a King kid for the very last time. The routine has changed over the years. Gone are the days of walking into a classroom and being greeted by my kids ‘friends with an enthusiastic “Hey Carter’s Mom,” like it was my given name. The early morning drop-offs for sports came and went, and the hours spent sitting in pick-up lines at the end of the day disappeared as he got a driver’s license. And now it’s the last day of school.
I’m having big feelings about this—what it means for his future as well as what it means for mine. I hear often about how men’s identities are tied to their vocations, but motherhood is an all-encompassing career where we spend eighteen to twenty years investing every fiber of our beings into raising tiny humans into confident, well-equipped adults. We devote ourselves wholly to children who grow up, only to leave us alone with their fathers.
Our bodies bear the scars from giving our offspring life. The countless hours we’ve spent worrying about them, keeping them safe and healthy, and lying awake reliving every parenting mistake that might send our precious children to therapy are memorialized in our gray hair. Then one day, we wake up to the realization we have worked ourselves out of a job.
It’s a struggle not to find our identities in our roles. I’ll admit, I’ve taken great pride in identifying as the mother of three terrific funny, bright, Christ-following kids. And it’s easy to feel sad and lost as my role in their lives is becoming somewhat obsolete. They don’t need me to take care of them like they did before. Who am I outside of Collin, Kailyn, and Carter’s mom?
I am still a child of the One True King, and I still serve the Risen Savior who chose me, redeemed me, and marked me with a seal, according to Ephesians 1. I was “created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for [me] to do,” (Eph. 2:10). No matter our season, we must all remember to keep our identities rooted in our Creator. As long as we are breathing, He has given us purpose, and our identities in Him never change.
If you see a mom of a graduating senior this week, she might be celebrating, or she might be grieving just a tad. She’s probably doing a little of both. Hug her and let her know she’s seen. Maybe remind her she’s still worthy and has more work to do, and offer tissues.