11.17 // Inheritance
When I was a young girl, my mom used to take me to work at her physician’s office. She would let me roam around, eavesdrop on her next patient while they were in triage, and report back to her before she went saw them herself. Often, she let me stay in during examinations and diagnoses. I would “take notes” on a clipboard and help her file. I guess patients didn’t mind me joining them either!
Looking back, I remember those days as being most exciting. I felt as official and important as anyone else in the office. And they let me belong and be a part of it all. Belonging is always a sacred gift.
And now, about 25 years later, I am thankful for those mornings in the doctor’s office because not only was I valued there, I learned so much. And as I lived with my mom and watched her care of my siblings and answer medical question over the phone from many family members and friends, I continued to absorb what she knew and how she spoke and when she persisted and when she let things go. I inherited little parts of her.
And now, tonight, I am sitting here on the couch with my very, very sick little boy. As exhausting and unnerving as this sickness has been, it would be all the more scary without all her little tricks in my mind: hot, steamy showers will soothe headaches and congestion— just let the water run down your face and back for a while; take a few ibuprofen and lay down in a dark room; just dab a little hydrocortisone cream on it.
Even though I am a little too queasy to be a doctor myself, I carry some of her basic insights and skills into my mothering especially— but into running and friendships, too.
And all of these are small gifts from her.
As I bring to mind these memories in my examen tonight, I recall a series of questions Dr. Cline asked us as seniors in college: “What part of you, if any, is entirely autonomous? Is there any aspect of you that is uninfluenced by others? Is this kind of self-made existence possible?”
And as Jackson and I pull the sniffling, soggy little boy out of another oatmeal bath and put some socks on his hands, I realize once again that we truly inherit everything.
Everything I know is because someone taught me, someone showed me.
All of my preferences are because I was exposed by a family member or friend.
Any skill that I may possess have been passed down to me— or at least validated or encouraged— by those whose opinions matter to me.
Images of what it means to be a good mother, teacher, student, writer, wife, and friend (and human being for that matter) have been exemplified in the lives of others.
And while I believe there is a core, inner part of me that is my truest self, I believe that was given, too. Each of us was crafted and designed in the hands of God, breathed into, and sent into the world to live free and joy-filled lives with Him. But that self is given.
Most of life is returning to that gifted self and journeying with others to do the same.
No, we are not self-made.
We do not exist on our own accord.
We were created once.
And then we are recreated and gifted and blessed over and over again by other creatures who bear the Image of the Father on them.
As I put the kids down, I reread The Lion King book and pause on the line from Mufasa to his son: “You have forgotten who you are, and so you have forgotten me.”
Pretty deep stuff for a kids book.
But my heart agrees: Yes, this is how it works as dust and breath people.
We are entirely intertwined in our own Father. To lose our selves in the lie of utter autonomy is to lose Him, too. To fragment ourselves from our community and those who shape us is to lose Him.
And, at the end of the day, to live as solitary people is to lose our given self, too.
As I prepare for a long night, I give gratitude for the parts of me that I have inherited.
I see the faces of friends and family who have offered healing and wholeness to me out of their own holy personhood— my dad, siblings, college friends, in-laws, church family, the Wesley bands and small groups I have been a part of.
Yes, we make each other.
There is so much more to possibly say about this kind of giving, this kind of living together.
But, for tonight, this post remains short. I am off to lay down with my little guy— this son of mine who I grew and birthed, and who has also made me.
