masking & unveiling

Yesterday, I surrendered my 12-year-old son to a giant, snorting bus that snatched him in its teeth and took him off to church camp. And the second after we pulled into the parking lot to meet it, Clayton slipped away from me like a wet dog on bath day. No hug goodbye, no “later, mom,” no indication that he ever wanted to see me again in this life or the next.

I’m not sure, but I think I would have liked it better if he’d clung to me like an emotional preschooler. After all, I had packed, prayed and prepared his way to this exciting week of summer and memories.

But when I finished loading his bags and climbed on the bus to force a final goodbye, his wide eyes telegraphed this message: I love you and all, but if you hug me in front of my friends, I will die right here in a greasy spot on the seat. So I turned away with a tiny wink and a nod, and with the knowledge that at least he had clean underwear to last him the whole week, and NO ONE COULD TAKE THAT AWAY FROM ME.

I wonder if that’s how God feels. I nestle in at home sometimes, seeking the steadfast support I know I’ll find under His roof. He bandages my wounds, washes out my dirty laundry and painstakingly packs my suitcase with the things I’ll need for the hard journey ahead.

Then I take credit for the love that has brought me this far, as I climb on the bus and deny Him in the face of my friends. I ride off to the campsites of work or family or pleasure, never looking back to catch the eyes of the One who loves me most.