I have been a mother for seven years now, but today felt like I became a parent for the first time.  You see, my daughter overheard a very serious conversation that affected her in ways that I didn’t think she could process at her age. 

While sitting at the pool waiting for a storm to pass, a few of us were sitting under a shelter talking about summertime things…camps and vacation plans, back to school sales and volleyball try-outs.  When our chit-chat dwindled, I asked what happened to a particular lifeguard, whom I had not seen much of since summer began.  “He’s in prison,” my friend replied. “DUI.  Didn’t you see the story?”  No…I missed it.  I missed that two high school graduates were driving home one evening, one behind the wheel while intoxicated, and the other in the passenger side not wearing a seatbelt.  The driver lost control of the vehicle, crashed, and his friend was killed.  Both had promising futures — the driver on his way to WVU as an incoming freshman, and the other headed to the Air Force Academy as the number one tennis player in the state.  One is in a cell, the other is in a coffin.

As I asked for details, I didn’t realize that Ava was sitting behind me, hanging on every single word.  Later this evening, as I went through the house turning off lights and locking doors, she stood at the top of the stairs clutching her doll. Startled, I asked what was wrong.

“Do they turn the lights out on people in jail?”

My heart sank. I knew then that she had heard too much, and I had said too little.  She gripped her doll and started picking at her fingernails — a sign that she was deeply worried and very scared.

“Well….yes…they do turn out the lights in jail.  When it’s time to go to sleep, a man or woman turns out the lights like we do here.”

“Do people in jail eat food? Does someone feed them?” she asked.

Inside, my heart was breaking for her as she tried to understand something so serious.  A kid, 19 years old, still a teenager, is sitting in a cell at this moment, alone and in the dark. So is the person he killed as a result of drunken, reckless driving.  Yet I had to somehow explain that bad things happen to good people, and good people make bad choices.  I wasn’t prepared to talk about alcohol and drunkenness, and I wasn’t prepared to talk about crime and punishment.  I wasn’t prepared to talk about death and loss.  I wasn’t prepared to be the one to shake her faith and trust in others.

“I remember the lifeguard,” she began. “Last summer, when I took swimming lessons at the pool, he taught kids next to me.” 

I tried to explain that prison is a type of adult time-out; a place where people go to learn right from wrong.  A large building that is a type of school for people who need to think about their bad behaviors.  I tried to explain that time-out is especially long if a law or rule is broken – months or years are spent trying to change the way some people act or think.  If people are good or well behaved, then they can leave the jail or prison to return home to their families. 

“Are they allowed to see their mother or father?” she asked.

Yes, there are visiting days where they can be together. “Can they call their mother or father?” Yes, at certain times they can make calls. “Why do they tie their hands together? Why do they not wear normal clothes?”

After giving second-grade level answers to a child who seemed twice her age at that moment, I noticed that her eyes had filled with tears. I asked her what was wrong, or if I had scared her trying to explain all of this to her.

“Do people in jail have addresses?” Yes, I think so.  “Can I send him a card?”

The breadth and depth of a child’s soul never ceases to amaze me.  From empathy to sympathy, a new heart is full of so much forgiveness.  So much love.

“Yes, of course…if you want to send him a card to tell him you are thinking of him, then we will find out how to mail it.”

Finally, after peeled fingernails and the twisting of her shiny, blond hair, she wore herself out asking questions and filtering my carefully crafted answers.  I was exhausted trying to protect her feelings while being honest about choices and consequences. 

When she fell asleep, I walked to her bookshelf to put a few thing away, when I noticed the title of a book, “Mama Always Comes Home”.  I bought it for the girls when I started working again, trying to ease the separation anxiety that we all seemed to feel.  After reading it for the first time, I resented its title and its guarantee.  “Mama ALWAYS comes home….to you.”  I felt guilty promising them something that I had so little control over.  Yes, when I get into the car, I’m stone-cold sober.  Yes, when I sit down in the driver’s seat, I fasten my seatbelt.  Yes, when I pull out of the driveway, I stay within the speed limit and remain in my own lane.  However, I can’t control the other driver on the road who might be drunk, might be speeding, or might be negligent in some other way.  At this point, I have to pray that as their Mama, God’s plan for me will be to return home.  And, as my seven-year old (and four-year old, too) turn into 17 year olds, I pray to God that they, too, will return home, each night that they drive off to join friends at parties or movies.  Above all else, though, I pray that if God intended for me to be their mother, then He’ll show me the way.

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