Autumn brings more than just falling leaves. It brings a cool breeze, vibrant colors and change. It also seems to be the season for moving.

I finished packing last month and moved down to Texas where I am now unpacking all the boxes, trying to find room for everything. Some days it seems there are more boxes to unpack than I remember packing. It’s quite a challenge having to re-organize and re-think my storage choices when I was so used to the set-up I had. But give me a month or two and hopefully everything will have a place.

My sister is in the midst of moving. She’s living in South Carolina and starting a new job while her husband is back in Ohio within weeks/months of retiring and selling their house. T. Suzanne Eller, one of the Boomer Babe Bloggers is also moving. Her recent dilemma was what to keep and what to throw away from her clothes closet. Change.

Have you recently downsized and moved to a smaller home? How did you decide what stays and what goes or make more storage where there is none?

This next year will be a study in patience and pared back living for me – and I’m happy to say that I’m actually looking forward to what God is going to do in our lives in this new journey. My husband is settling into his new job and has had his first real estate sale (and closing) and he’s getting into the flow rather well. I’m looking forward to writing my third novel and releasing my next non-fiction book in February. Change.

I am also finding myself at a crossroads, as are many boomer women, regarding my business strategy and plan to shift some projects in order to focus more on those things that are priority – blogging, writing and speaking. Change.

With each change, regardless of size or degree, it’s comforting to know that God has ordered our steps. It also brings a certain freedom as we walk out those steps. Freedom to enjoy the journey. Freedom to watch as the change brings new friends, opportunities and yes, even new ways to organize all our stuff. By the way, do we really need all this stuff to survive?

I’ve found that as I begin to move with the change, rather than fight it, I am learning to give up other things, such as a dependence on email. It once drove me to endless hours in front of the computer. Now, I’m learning to enjoy the change, albeit self-imposed, to not be a slave to my computer. I’m learning to enjoy the beautiful Texas sunrise and cool evening breeze from my patio.

Change doesn’t always come easy. Some changes are sudden and unexpected – the loss of a loved one, a job or a home. Others happen after many years of working and planning to make them come to fruition. Then there are those changes that are just life – wrinkles, bifocals, and menopause. Change.

Regardless of the circumstances you currently face, there will be change. With each minute that passes by there is change. The change of seasons often causes us to reflect on the changes in our lives. I’m just thankful that through it all, one thing remains the same – Jesus Christ the same yesterday, and to day, and for ever. On that I can rest, be at peace and move forward in the midst of chaos, unpacked boxes, and change.

©2007, Allison Bottke

School days, school days, dear old golden rule days…wow, does that tune ever bring back memories! As parents around the country prepare to send their children off to school for another year, many baby boomers are experiencing the season from another perspective. Some of us have an empty nest for the first time, while for others it’s been years since we pushed a loaded cart through the school supply aisle of our local Wal-Mart.

I don’t envy one bit the challenges today’s parents have in getting kids ready for another school year. It seems things weren’t as complicated for parents when boomers were kids. Notebook paper, #2 lead pencils and oilcloth for our desktops were standard fare—unlike the very long supply lists kids have today, bless their hearts.

A new school year can be daunting for some and thoroughly exciting for others. It’s a time of change—of growth—of moving up and moving on. From pre-school to “real school,” from one grade to another, from one school to another, and for many who have moved during the summer, from one town to another. This school year I’m experiencing the latter—moving from one town to another—in fact, from one state to another as we leave our home in southern Minnesota for the warm Texas terrain.

My husband is a fifth generation Bottke in our Minnesota farm town. He will leave behind memories that stretch back generations. I’ve only been here a short 12 years, yet I already feel the pang of loss for our 25-acre farmstead. We’ll be leasing a home in a Dallas suburb, albeit temporarily, until we decide where to buy our next home. It’s a time of trepidation…and I can’t help but recall the feelings I used to experience in September as a school girl—starting a new year in unfamiliar surroundings, wondering what the new semester would bring.

For boomer babes around the country—around the world, in fact, we are facing “new semesters” every year as our environment changes, our body changes, and our outlook on what’s really important changes as well. As kids in school, every new experience is as vital as can be—every challenge is catastrophic—and every molehill is typically a mountain. As boomer babes, we’ve come to learn that choosing our battles wisely is far better than fighting an uphill battle for every little thing. Age has mellowed many of us—to a calmer place where the seasons of change are experienced not with fear and trembling, but with anticipation that God is opening a new door, presenting a new opportunity, and allowing us to grow in grace—if we choose to do so.

I’m waxing poetic this season, and I’m obviously no poet, but in thinking and praying about my boomer babe column this month, I found myself less melancholy and far more joyful than one would expect for someone who is facing such a drastic change in the next few weeks.

It’s said that moving is one of the top five major stress factors in the life of a person, no matter their age. But I’d like to think for this boomer babe, that experiencing it now is a gift God has given to me—and to my husband.

Throughout the Bible are countless stories of people being moved from location to location—often at the great expense of life and love. Yet through all those historic moves God remained faithful in His promises and in His love for his children.

As kids all over the country return to school this month, I will pray for them and for their parents. I will also take time to pray for my fellow boomer babes and boomer dudes whose lives are entering a different season of learning. May whatever new journey you face be experienced from a place of joy and thanksgiving—no matter how challenging it may be.

“Choose this day whom you will serve.” We serve an awesome God whose plans for us far exceed anything we could possibly imagine. May your fall season be filled with the scent of adventure as this new semester in your life begins.

©2007, Allison Bottke

Reaching out to others has two aspects. On one side we have God’s Word encouraging us to reach out and help others, to treat our neighbors as ourselves, to shine God’s love and light into the lives of others whenever possible. But what about the other side? When reaching out to others means asking for help—allowing them to do for us that which we cannot do for ourselves? Or perhaps shouldn’t be doing for ourselves? This kind of reaching out isn’t always easy for me. Nor is it easy for my husband. We’re two mighty independent souls. While that’s okay in some ways, the fact is that God may use us as players in someone else’s drama—and if we try to swoop in and do it all ourselves, we may be denying someone their God-given destiny. We may be keeping another from learning the lesson God wants them to learn.

In the big scheme of things, it’s a give-and-take world. Sometimes we’re strong and other times we’re weak. Sometimes God wants us to give, and other times He wants us to learn how to receive.

This months CWO theme is Reaching Out to Others. There was a season in my life, and in the life of my husband, Kevin, when reaching out to others took on a meaning that changed our lives. It was a time when God stepped in and completely took care of us—sending countless people into our paths who reached out to us. People who willingly shared their gifts with us to keep us sustained. Gifts of knowledge, time, money, expertise, graciousness, mercy, love, and prayer.

God often has a way of orchestrating events that move us from our comfort zones. It was during this difficult time we learned how to humbly reach out to others—in many cases allowing people to live out their destiny—to follow God’s call placed on their heart.

Bull Attack!

“Allison, call me on my cell phone when you get in. It’s important,” was the message I retrieved from my hotel voice mail at 7:30 p.m. on October 3, 1998. While my stepson’s voice was calm, I knew in my heart something terrible had happened—he never called me when I was out of town. My mind raced as I returned his call, imagining all sorts of life and death scenarios, knowing for certain whatever had happened involved my husband of only three years.

“Dad’s been in an accident. Aaron sort of got him,” came Kermit’s reply to my “what’s wrong” question. (Yes, my stepson’s name is Kermit, after his grandfather—it’s a strong German name.)

“Aaron?” It took a minute for my mind to compute that he was referring to our fifteen hundred pound Hereford herd bull. “Define ‘sort of got him,” I cried. “Is he dead?” Cutting right to the chase is my nature; I had to know the truth.

“No,” came his tentative reply. “But they’re taking him in to surgery right now. He’s beat up pretty bad. He might lose his leg. He wasn’t gored as far as they can see, but it’s too soon to tell. Can you come home?”

Thus began my trek from Ohio to Minnesota via car as I couldn’t get a flight until the next morning and time was too precious to wait. So, too, began the amazing story of people reaching out to help us—as one after another, God placed his children into our lives to do for us that which we could not do for ourselves.

“Dear God,” I cried out, “please keep Kevin safe, please be with the doctors and give them wisdom to make the right choices” I prayed as I frantically drove home. “Please spare my husband. I can’t lose him now, not when we’ve only just begun our life together.”

I learned more about what happened as I drove.

Kevin had been working on our farm that day, building a corral with Kermit and Matt, our hired hand. They had put in a rather long day when Kermit was finishing up on the skid-loader, Matt was moving hay bales on the tractor and Kevin was in the farmyard working around the cows. Growing up on a farm, Kevin had always exhibited a healthy respect for our bull, teaching me never to turn my back on him. That day, and it’s hard to say why it happened, Aaron suddenly and without warning came after Kevin, and with the powerful butt of his head, sent my husband flying into the air. In no time he had Kevin back on the ground, rolling him, stepping on him and pounding him into the dirt.

Hearing nothing over the sounds of the tractor and the skid-loader, it was by the grace of God that Matt looked up just as Kevin was flying through the air, and he frantically began waving to Kermit who was closer to the situation.

“I looked up and saw Aaron on top of Dad, bashing him into the concrete base of the corn silo,” Kermit said, fighting back tears as he explained to me what happened. “He kept butting him with his head. Dad was rolled up in a ball and I thought for sure he was dead.” Thinking quickly, Kermit remained on the skid-loader and as fast as he could, he drove straight into the side of the raging bull, knocking him off his feet and away from his now silent father. That life-saving act was the first of a series of life-saving acts surrounding this drama.

“By the time the bull had me down the second time I knew I was a dead man,” said Kevin weeks later. “I can clearly remember being thankful that I knew Jesus as my Lord and Savior. I was prepared to go to Heaven.”

“By the time I got to Dad, he was pretty beat up, but I thanked God when I could see that he was still alive,” Kermit said. “But he was covered in blood and his left leg was at an impossible angle. I knew it was broken. I couldn’t tell if Aaron’s massive horns had punctured him. My immediate concern was to keep the bull away from him and try to keep Dad as quiet as possible until the ambulance could arrive.”

“Most bull attacks are fatal, and I figured this would be such a case,” admitted Mike David, paramedic and Kevin’s long-time acquaintance. “When we got the call, my heart jumped to my throat, knowing Kevin as I did.”

But the Lord did not call Kevin home. Instead He sent us both on a journey of hope and healing that changed our lives.

Our local hospital was ill-equipped to handle this type of trauma, and Kevin was rushed to the Mayo Clinic in Rochester with a pulverized tibia, fractured fibula, facial lacerations, and head-to-toe bruises. The surgical team was soon faced with a severe “compartment syndrome” in his leg as they prepared to operate–a syndrome that causes intense swelling, often resulting in the need to amputate limbs as a result of dead muscle, tissue and nerves. Had the team not caught this in time, quickly slicing his leg open on each side from knee to ankle, he would have lost his limb.

“I had never seen an injury quite like it,” said Dr. Brian Hamline, the attending orthopedic surgeon on call that night. “In any other hospital, especially in a small town, his leg most likely would have been amputated, but at Mayo we had a team of highly skilled surgeons, all focused on doing whatever it took to save that leg.” And save it they did.

From the moment Kermit rescued his father from the raging bull, to the skilled paramedic team on call that afternoon, to the team of orthopedic surgeons with amazing skills, to the prayer warriors who kept me safe on the road as I drove that night—everywhere we looked people were reaching out, and it didn’t stop there.

I arrived at Mayo before noon the next day. The man I saw in the hospital bed didn’t look like my husband. He looked like a grotesquely inflated balloon caricature—so swollen was his body—purple with bruises and connected to tubes, wires and equipment.

Thus began the year long siege of my sweet husband, a man whose last stay in a hospital had been when he entered the world in 1954. Kevin learned what it meant to reach out from a different perspective, as did I.

After three weeks and five surgeries, including multiple bone and skin grafts, Kevin left St. Mary’s – Mayo Medical Center wearing an external fixator – a bizarre looking contraption that consisted of three metal halos (that looked somewhat like black iron horse shoes) and twelve pins going through his bones from his ankle to his knee. He would wear this equipment for twelve long months, unable to bear any weight whatsoever on that leg for nine of those months. A walker, then crutches, assisted him for one full year.

Kevin learned what it meant to put his life first into the hands of God, and then into the hands of countless individuals as they reached out to help him—to help us. Through it all I witnessed the perseverance of an optimist whose eyes were on the Lord. Seldom did Kevin cry out when I know the pain was intolerable. He was a most gracious patient and I reveled in the ability to care for him as my nurturing nature took over, trying to make my husband’s recuperation and rehabilitation as comfortable as humanly possible.

I frequently cried out to God asking for His will to be done, asking for guidance when my nerves were frayed, and thanking Him for the ability to stay at home full-time to care for Kevin.

This was a time of great change in our lives. Kevin temporarily turned over the reigns of his hugely successful real estate business to a co-worker, and in between caring for Kevin, I began to write again, something I had put on the back burner when we married in 1995. We rescheduled our winter vacation for the next year, giving Kevin a goal to work toward as he vowed to “leave these darn crutches behind.”

We ushered in the new millennium on the beach at South Padre Island, Texas. It was on that beach in Texas fourteen months after the accident that we praised the Lord for saving Kevin’s life and his leg, and for sending so many people into our lives who willingly reached out to help us heal. Crutches gone, we held hands as he walked slowly with the aid of only a cane, sharing our dreams and visions for our future.

Kevin decided to start his own real estate company and venture out on his own, away from the constraints of corporate America. I would dust off my memoir, appropriately called God Allows U-Turns, and after another revision would begin once again to look for a publisher—an exercise that had proven fruitless years before.

“It seems everyone has a story to tell,” I shared with Kevin as we walked on the beach. The year we spent in and out of the hospital, doctors’ offices and in physical therapy brought us countless stories from folks whose lives had been spared by God’s amazing grace. We were often in awe at how willing people were to reach out and share their deeply personal stories of hope and healing.

“Perhaps this book is bigger than just my story,” I told Kevin. “Maybe I should make God Allows U-Turns a compilation series. If I asked, do you think people would send me their stories of how God works in life?”

The rest, as they say, is history.

From out of the ashes of pain came Kevin’s vision to venture out of the corporate box and into the world of entrepreneurialism. His leg still bears the scars of multiple surgeries and skin grafts, but he walks unaided without a limp—most of the time. He’s come to understand that Reaching Out to Others is a two way street. That we must learn to graciously accept help as well as be willing to extend it.

And as for me? Well, my passion to share the hope and healing of turning toward Christ has become a growing outreach ministry through God Allows U-Turns. Thousands of stories come to me via my Web site each month during open submissions. Today, there are 22 books under the recognized God Allows U-Turns brand, including my first two novels.

It took a life-threatening accident to make us reassess our lives. To help us turn our hearts and minds toward the God who held us up when we were too weak to walk. And just think, it really was a bull that helped us hit the bull’s-eye in knowing and following God’s will for our lives. Imagine that.

©2007, Allison Bottke

I’m currently reading Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott, the bestselling author of Traveling Mercies. Subtitled, Some Instructions on Writing and Life, it’s turning out to be far more about the latter than the former.

As a writer, I’m always reading books that will help me fine tune my craft, especially since I consider myself sorely lacking in the craft department. I figured Lamott’s book would be a good resource. Little did I know that her memory exercises would not only spur me on to be a better writer, but would pull from the moth balls of my mind memories I’d long forgotten.

An exercise that can be both poignant and painful.

An exercise I’d like to challenge you to take.

For example, when was the last time you thought about your school lunches? And if you stop now to think about school lunches, how can that be of any benefit whatsoever to writing or life? Or what about the books you read as a kid? Think really hard about the first book you can recall reading…come on, you can do it.

Those two exercises had me writing pages and pages of thoughts and dialogue. In fact, I’m certain a short story will be birthed from the exercise.

And how about Polaroid photos? Remember how fascinated we were when we watched the yucky grey-green color turn into a photo before our very eyes? Today, we can download and send entire photo scrapbooks via email and think nothing of it—but for many of us the simple act of watching a Polaroid photo develop brought amazement and awe.

Those were the days.

Or…were they?

As I sat back in my chair reading, I frequently found myself putting down Lamott’s book and thinking about the questions she asked. Not just ‘thinking,’ but seriously searching long-forgotten places in my memory. Soon, my brain felt taxed…as though I’d done about one hundred sit-ups (considering I’d probably pass out and die after six sit-ups, this is saying a lot.) It wasn’t easy to conjure up those grade school memories but once accomplished, they began to flood my consciousness like an exploded water balloon…once the water bursts forth, there’s no putting it back.

I pulled out a notebook and began writing down random thoughts that came across my brain like ticker tape on a stock market message board. The random thoughts became paragraphs and then short stories.

I remembered placing orders from Scholastic Books when the book lady came to our class, and then searched back further for what books I’d ordered. I remembered writing my first love letter to Kenny somebody, I’m sure he had a last name but for the life of me I couldn’t recall that tidbit. I did, however, recall how he’d posted my letter on the fence of Cameron playground on West 105th Street in Cleveland where I felt both horror and elation. Horror because others would know how I felt about young Mr. No Last Name, and elation when folks commented on how much fun it was to read my letter. They thought it was a story.

A writer was born.

This focused memory search was a fun exercise—a series of exercises, actually, and while some of the memories were a bit painful, mostly I found myself thanking God for the ability to recall them, and for the lessons I had eventually learned because of them.

As a boomer babe it’s no secret that I’m getting older.
“Big deal,” I say, we’re all going to get older. Fact of life, eh?

But it’s what we do with the knowledge we’ve learned that counts. It’s what we do with the blessings the good Lord has given us that really matters. Like the subtitle reads for the God Allows U-Turns book series, “It’s the choices we make that change the story of our life.”

“Choose this day whom you will serve,” Scripture teaches us.

Long story short…we are the sum total of the experiences we’ve had and the choices we’ve made. And sometimes it’s good to sit back and think about those long forgotten memories like school lunches, first books, old love letters, and the experiences that have made us who we are today.

And sometimes it’s good to share those memories by writing down our stories.

As “rockin’ boomer babes,” let’s record our precious memories before they’re forever lost.

Eva Marie Everson is one of our boomer babe co-bloggers. She’s a master at sharing her memory stories. Hope you enjoy this one.

Until next month, here’s to memories…write yours down soon.

IS SHE THE MOTHER OR THE DAUGHTER?
By Eva Marie Everson

Do you remember the commercial for Ivory face soap? I do. It ran in the late 60s early 70s and boasted a lineup of young women, their mothers, and enough show and glow to make us all run out and buy the bar that’s 99.44% pure.

I’ve always taken good care of my skin. My entire body I may have abused (you know, with chocolate, coffee, a lack of exercise when I needed it most) but my skin… I come from a long line of women who have always done so. “Take care of your skin when you are young,” my mother used to say, “and you’ll have beautiful skin the rest of your life.” She should know; in her 70s, she has the skin of a woman years younger.

So, here’s the rest of my story (you were wondering, no?): I’m on an airplane not too long ago. Airplanes, let me just give you a clue, are not good for your skin. If you looked young when you boarded, you most assuredly will not when you deplane. So, I’m sitting on the plane, exit row so I have plenty of leg room, between two men who promise me if the plane goes down, they can and will open the 50 pound door to our left. I pull out my Bible and open the well-worn pages. A photo marks the spot I want to read from. It is a photo of my granddaughter and me, taken about four years ago.

The man to my right–a brave soul–points to the photo and says, “Is that your daughter?”

I turn to him and beam. “No,” I say. “That’s my granddaughter.”

He furrows his brow. He is clearly confused. Then he shakes his head and says, “No…not her” (pointing to the image of my granddaughter)…”HER!” (pointing to the image of me).

I blink several times. When my wits are finally back with me, I say, “Noooooo… that’s me.”

He blinks several times. By this point, we can have our own blinking competition, go down in the Guinness Book of World Records for blinking, for crying out loud.
He dares open his mouth. “Wow,” he says, obviously stupid or stupefied. Take your pick.

“It must have been taken a long time ago,” he continues.
I purse my lips. “Nooooooo. It was taken just four years ago.”

He dares open his mouth again. “Wow.” Then he smiles. “You sure have changed.”

I nod, turning my head toward the man on my left, who is pretending to be asleep. Shaking his head he mouths, “Dumb, dumb, dumb….” while I’m thinking, “You open that door…and I’ll shove him out of it.”

The last few years of my life have been more than difficult and the results have been that I look older than I should or even want to. Some days I look in the mirror and I think, “WHO are you???” The joys of being a boomer babe is that we’re also a part of that generation that has all the means of staying younger looking and no way to actually stay young.

Short of death.

We look at the photos of younger girls and women and think, “I used to look like that…no wrinkles…no sagging…no little laugh lines….”

Yeah, and you used to have zits, too.

Ahem. Still do sometimes.

But, that’s another story…for another week. Now, it’s time for my facial….

“The greatest level of wisdom man can hope to attain is the realization of how little he knows.”
Socrates

There will be no lack of reminders as Mother’s Day approaches. Television commercials will encourage us to buy Mom the latest “whatever.” Banners will hang in store windows from the east to west coast. Restaurants will offer elaborate champagne brunches in honor of Mother’s Day. Everywhere we look will be reminders of a special day set aside to honor the women who shaped our lives as daughters.

I used to enjoy this day when my mom was alive and I could do something special for her that would make her smile…and cry…and know how much she meant to me. I used to enjoy this day when my son was a little boy and he would greet me all wide-eyed and excited with his hand-made craft from school, declaring, “I love you, mommy!”

Today, my mother is in heaven and my adult son lives in a world estranged from me and all I hold dear. For me, and countless other boomer women around the world, Mother’s Day is a painful reminder of what we don’t have. It’s a day where some of us don’t want to go to church and get that corsage or be singled out. It’s a day for others.

Yet in His infinite wisdom, God has a plan for those of us with aching hearts. I’d like to share a story of hope and healing with you from my book; “God Answers Mom’s Prayers.” May it minister to you as it has ministered to me.

A SPIRITUAL MOM
by Judy Gann, Lakewood, WA

Mother’s Day dawned bright and beautiful—for everyone but me. I drove into the church parking lot, turned off the ignition and sat immobile, my hands gripping the steering wheel. Lord, I can’t do this. For seven years I’d avoided this moment.

I’d always wanted to be a mother. As a young girl happily playing house with my baby sister and my dolls, I dreamed of the day when I’d have my own children. After becoming a Christian, the recurring prayer of my heart became, Father, please bring me a godly husband and children. I long to be a mom.

Yet, I remained single. A children’s librarian, I focused my mothering capacities on the children who populated my world every day. I treasured time spent with my niece and nephew.

For many years I also experienced the blessing of mentoring several young women from my church. One-on-one and in small groups, these girls shared their hearts with me—their joys, sorrows, and spiritual struggles.
Surrounded by children in the library and the girls I mentored, I shoved the issue of having children on the back shelf of my mind. Until, in my early ‘40s, I had a necessary hysterectomy.

I was blindsided by the cavernous void in my life following surgery. The finality of the hysterectomy and the emptiness of my childless state seared my mind. God, what happened to my prayer? Why didn’t you answer it?
Aching with inner pain, the sight of babies in the grocery store, at church, and even in the library ignited my sense of loss. Waves of grief, anger, and despair assaulted me. I plummeted into a deep depression.

In time, and with the help of a compassionate counselor, I realized my sense of worth and value to God and others isn’t based on motherhood, but rather on my relationship with the Lord. The God who created me loves me—married or single, a mother or childless. In God’s eyes, I’m not less of a woman because I’m not a mother. I began to concentrate on the gifts God gave me instead of focusing on what might be “missing” in my life.

But one last remnant of pain remained. I refused to attend church on Mother’s Day. As each Mother’s Day approached, I argued with God. Lord, it hurts too much. I dread sitting alone when the mothers stand and are celebrated. What if I break down and cry? It was easier to stay away. Soon staying home on Mother’s Day became an entrenched habit.

Then at a women’s retreat, I listened intently as Jeanne, the speaker, spoke about attending the first Mother’s Day church service after her mother’s death. Single at the time, she told of the unexpected comfort she’d found at church that morning and, yes, even the tears she needed to shed. I thought to myself, If Jeanne can do it, maybe I can do it.

Now, after seven years, I’d finally made it as far as the church parking lot. Conflicting emotions battled within me as my reluctant legs carried me across the parking lot and into the church foyer. Once inside, I froze at the sight of children handing a flower to each mother. I stepped back, ready to bolt out the door.

Austin, a boy from my preschool story time group, shyly approached with a carnation. “No thank you, Austin,” I whispered. “I’m not a mother.”

My eyes flooded with tears. Yet with an inner strength and calm from God alone, I turned to walk up the stairs to the sanctuary. Suddenly I felt an arm across my shoulders. I turned and gazed with blurry eyes into the face of Barbara, the mother of one of the young women I’d mentored.

“Judy,” she said, in a soft, but firm voice. “You are a mother. You’re Carla’s spiritual mother.” Barbara waved to Austin who returned with his fistful of flowers. My hand shook as I took the flower Austin held out to me.
This time tears of joy welled up as I climbed the steps to the sanctuary, proudly clutching my yellow carnation. Spiritual Mother. As I slid into a pew, the names of the young women I mentored paraded through my mind: Masako, Carla, Jennifer, Sarah, and Lori. What a joy to come alongside these young women, nurturing them by example and sharing from my walk with the Lord.
God didn’t answer my prayer for children, at least not as I’d hoped or imagined. But in the quiet moments before the start of the church service, I realized He had answered this deepest prayer of my heart in a special and unique way. God showed me that the word mother could be defined in many ways. I will never give birth to a child. But, as a spiritual mother, I have the rich privilege of nurturing and influencing the children and young people God places in my life. A meal with my niece and nephew or an afternoon with one of the young women in my Bible study offers precious opportunities for spiritual mothering.
Joy replaced grief as I settled in for my first Mother’s Day church service in many years. Lord, thank you for the privilege of being a spiritual mom.

Reprinted with permission – God Answers Mom’s Prayers, Harvest House 2005, compiled and edited by Allison Bottke.

©2007, Allison Bottke

“We love because he first loved us.”
(1 John 4:19 NIV)

Since this column for baby boomer women launched in January, I’ve been talking a great deal about achieving the dreams of our heart. About walking in the purpose God has for our life. I’ve been encouraging my fellow boomer sisters to take more risks—to trust that God has a plan for our life that is infinitely greater than anything we could ever hope or dream for.

Yet while this all sounds well and good and I do believe it to be true, I’ve had a heavy heart these past weeks for boomer women whose lives are wrapped up in family crisis—particularly as it relates to situations involving our adult children. You see, I’m working on a new book tentatively called; Parents in Pain – How to Stop Enabling Our Adult Children, and day in and day out my heart breaks as I talk with parents in pain and read their first-person accounts. Many of these parents are fellow boomers.

At a time in life when we should be experiencing the empty nest, rediscovering our spouse, taking new adventures, and pursuing the dreams of our heart—many of us find ourselves in painful bondage to dysfunctional adult children whose choices include drugs, alcohol, gambling, crime, financial ruin, and a host of other negative circumstances too heinous to mention.

What is equally painful, if not more so, is the realization of the fact that in many instances the current situation can be traced back to choices we made as parents. Many boomer parents, including myself, have been stepping in for years to soften the blow of consequences—desiring to protect the children we love. But now that we are older and wiser, many of us can see the error of our ways. We weren’t helping at all—we were enabling.

Outrageous and destructive behavior in our adult children has been going on for years. Back in 1982, a landmark book called Tough Love told us all about it. Phyllis and David York, licensed therapists and the founders of the national Tough Love movement, partnered with Ted Wachtel, founder of The Community Service Foundation, to write Tough Love. An instant bestseller that depicted horror story after horror story of teens and adult children spinning out of control and taking their parents with them.

“Our destructive young people come from all kinds of home environments. Their parents are white, black, yellow, or brown; rich, poor, or middle class; educated or uneducated; permissive or strict; deeply religious of every faith or uninvolved in any faith; divorced, remarried, or still in their first marriage. The young people themselves are first born, second born, eighth born, only child or adopted. And rarely are all the children in one family acting out. Usually one or two are disrupting the lives of others in the family.” ⁱ

The above description still holds true today, but the plague of 1982 has become the pandemic of 2007.

It’s difficult to stop enabling—but not impossible. Trust me, I know.

We must start by realizing the most important thing is not the mess our adult child is in, or what caused it, or how we can “help” them to fix it—whatever “it” may be. The most important thing for us as parents is to move in a new direction regarding the choices we make. And to do so in love—no matter how hard it may be to love the adult child who has broken our heart.

We must pull away from the problems of our adult children and start listening to God.

We must stop making the choice to think about the problems our adult child has, how we tried to help them, or how we have failed over the years to help them. The sole focus from this day forward must be to listen to God who is the voice of love. To follow his guidelines for getting our life back on track, to begin walking the journey that will bring healing, hope, happiness, and joy into our life.

It all comes down to love.

Throughout Scripture, it is love that is the most important thing to God. The love he has for us and for our children, the love we have for him, the power of love, the healing that comes from love, the lessons on what it means to love.

We need to love our adult children enough to let them go.

****

It was a father’s worse nightmare—saying good-bye to a son in such a manner. He knew the day would come. He had long prepared for it. Yet not unlike the expectant mother who knows childbirth is impending, the pain of the process cannot be explained until the birth process begins.

With no way out, no turning back, he knew his son would experience a pain beyond human comprehension. Should he stop it? He could. He had the power to intervene—to bail him out—to stop the incomprehensible violence and bloodshed.

What kind of man was he? To let his only son walk the gauntlet of abuse? Surely there was no mercy in his sinew. His son wasn’t a bad man. Yes, he was a bit outspoken, and he traveled with a wild crowd from time to time, he was even known to keep company with beggars and thieves, and women of questionable virtue.

In fact, truth be told, he had always been a trouble-maker. Always questioning authority—pushing the envelope—making people think about things that stirred the pot. Why couldn’t he leave well enough alone?

His father’s heart was broken. He had a choice to make. He had resources at his disposal to bail out his son, to change the situation. He could bring him back into his arms, back home where he would be safe. He could look upon his sleeping face and remember the times past when this child—no longer a child—had needed the care and direction of a parent—not yet man enough to make his own choices, but no longer a baby…no longer the sponge soaking up parental wisdom and knowledge…able to make decisions on his own.

No matter how it broke his own heart, he had to let his son experience the consequences. He had to love him enough to let him go.

***

This is the story of Easter—the story of a love so strong it changed the course of history.

Our adult children may not be saviors of the world, but they are no less important in the eyes of our Heavenly Father. Loving them enough to release them to live the destiny God has planned for their life is one of the most vital choices we can make as parents.

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ⁱ Tough Love, by Phyllis and David York and Ted Wachtel, Bantam/Doubleday, 1982 – Page 11

©2007, Allison Bottke