Dear Mom of Moses,
“It’s not about letting go,” I hear you say, “it’s about setting sail.” I let that float around in my head awhile.
I want to look into your eyes – the ones that memorized your baby’s face, and spilled over with tears. My heart weeps for you, dear mom of Moses. You, the one left with empty arms.
For months, you’d held him close, whispered in his baby ears and drank in his perfectness, knowing the time was coming.
Did you ever wonder if you couldn’t just keep him? Ever want to just wrap his little fingers in your hand, and never let go forever? Every mom through every century would’ve understood that choice.
How I need to look into your eyes, need to ask you this: in that unforgettable moment at the bank of Nile, how in the world did you let go, Mama?
After all, you’re a mom just like me. You love your babies. You wake up at night when they cry. You live to feed them, bathe them, hug them and wipe away their tears. This is what we do, and somehow, we love it more than life itself.
But, you? Your mother’s love was void of self. Your courage, greater than your crushed heart. Your strength, greater than your sorrow. When everything in you was shattered, crying out for just one more embrace, one more day together- you put one foot in front of the other down that path to the Nile.
Sometimes, fulfilling that greater purpose means accepting God’s plans with open hands and empty arms. It means releasing. I guess that’s why you say it’s not about letting go; it’s about setting sail.
On that bank, you cradled his young life – one your Lord had ordained for something far bigger than your basket could provide. Then you laid him in the Nile and ignited transformation on those waters, a transformation ushered in with your open hands.
You placed a mere basket of wriggling, Hebrew innocence in the waters and a few bends later a princess drew out an Egyptian prince, your deliverer. And then, sacrifice became freedom for your people, for you.
Sometimes, fulfilling that greater purpose means accepting God’s plans with open hands and empty arms. It means releasing.
So, today my Nile rushes before me.
It’s the door of the kindergarten classroom. It’s the car keys jangling in his pocket. It’s the foster child walking away with my heart. It’s the church aisle and bouquets of flowers. It’s the goodbye before the train, the car, the plane leaves.
And I must open my hands to release.
Here at my Nile’s bank, I think of you, the mother of Moses. And, I place my babies, wrapped in the best basket I can provide in waters of faith.
I stand now with open hands and empty arms. But, I’m not letting go – am I, dear Mom of Moses? I’m setting them sailing to their destiny of royalty, as heirs of the King and children of promise.
Guest post by: Anne Dahlhauser
Anne blogs at Front Porch, Inspired about surrendering everyday living for sacred purposes. She and her husband, Jay, are founders of a ministry focusing on missional living, discipleship, and intercultural relationships.
Jay and Anne have four kids, a front door that can’t stay closed, and an abundance of messy, holy chaos at their home in a unique, Iowan
neighborhood.
You can find Anne at FrontPorchInspired.com
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