The Lawson Girls

People often ask if I got what I was looking for out of my trip to Scotland but I’m not sure how to answer that question. I was never sure what I was looking for.  I struggled with whether to go in the first place and almost backed out a few times because, let’s be honest, it felt a bit extravagant. However, it also felt clear that God orchestrated the whole thing. I’ve noticed multiple gifts that God graciously offered me as I’ve thought about it over the last few months.  Some I’ve opened and some I have yet to discover. 

I shared in a recent blog that one such gift was the recognition and beauty of simply walking with God. Step by step. Through every season. It became clear to me that the pace of our culture is at constant war with this idea. Carving out time to get away with the Lord for the purpose of walking, talking and listening is not only NOT selfish…it’s absolutely necessary. 

Another gift that’s been beautiful to unwrap has been my continued healing. I was clueless to the unseen corners of grief in my heart that needed a safe place to be seen, understood and accepted.   Thirteen strangers became the healing hands of God as we shared stories, related to one another’s grief, laughed together, prayed together, walked together and clung to the side of a mountain in a “slight wind” together.   I find myself praying for them daily and missing them more than I could have expected.  The fact that I met thirteen strangers and liked ALL of them continues to amaze me as a woman who takes a while to bond with people. Healing and friendships…gifts 2 and 3. 

But there are two more gifts that have left me in tears all day today.  

The first is the gift that God sort of “forced” me to open. 

Writing. 

I say “forced” because writing has always been a joy for me. It isn’t a gift I would refuse. I’ve missed it and it’s been clear that God has been telling me, repeatedly, to write for over a year.  I simply didn’t know what to say. Or I was afraid to say it.  I’m not sure which.  I tried, but the words never came. Whether it was the healing that my heart found or the confirmation from my new friends who said, yes, God was telling me to pick up a pen… I landed in Texas and did just that.  

It’s not great writing – but it’s writing. Six years later and I’m finally beginning to get the details of our journey in Siberia down on paper. I could never have imagined how difficult it would be. I write about 2 pages a day and usually know when I’m done because I can’t see through the tears. But, I keep writing. I don’t think I could have picked up the pen again if God hadn’t healed hidden corners of my heart in Scotland. I also don’t think I could see a beautiful thread in my story until meeting others who had lost loved ones.  It all fits together now. Somehow. At least I think it will when I work through the tangled mess of memories and emotions. This precious gift of writing would have been enough if God had only restored it for my own joy, but it has led to another unexpected gift that I opened today. 

My daughters. 

These three women. Young, brave, tenacious, wise, stubborn, funny, broken girls.  These humans that have somehow crossed over an invisible line from child to friend in the last few years.  People that I’ve felt the need to be “strong” for and tried to protect while missing the fact that they’ve been offering me their strength and protection all along. 

As I’ve written about the journey of Steve’s coma in Siberia it’s become shocking to me that I don’t know the full account of all they suffered here in Texas.  I know it was hard. I’ve seen the trauma and tears. I’ve even heard bits and pieces, but I haven’t looked into their eyes to hear and witness their stories.   All of them.   It wasn’t that I didn’t want to, and I don’t think they have recognized the fact that I haven’t, but it hit me that three completely different young ladies faced a mountain of pain at the ages of 27, 24 and 22.  Thank the Lord we had friends and family nearby but the amount of fear, uncertainty, responsibility and confusion that they carried had never landed heavy on my heart.

Until today.  

I texted one of them asking for a couple of details that I couldn’t remember and was shocked at the speed at which she responded with loads of information. Every memory seemed to be waiting at the forefront of her mind. Waiting to be recounted and relived. Waiting to be heard. I realized how strong these girls of mine had been. They couldn’t be any different but they each moved beyond their fear and frustration to survive that week. And they did it together. One was laser focused on doing something productive to avoid the feeling that Steve wouldn’t come home.  One was in shock, had panic attacks and couldn’t function because of the fear and emotion. And one retreated into video games and books while having the conviction that everything was going to be okay.  As different as they were, they supported one another and helped one another through their low moments. They prayed and they asked people for help. They didn’t apologize for their feelings or what they needed and when they finally made their way to meet me, halfway across the world, they held me up physically, spiritually and emotionally.  I’m not sure I ever told them the relief I felt when I saw them run down the steps of a Parisian hotel at midnight. It was like I’d been holding my breath for a week and, finally, I could breathe again.

As I’ve been writing and thinking and asking questions, the gift I’ve slowly unwrapped is that I see each of them more clearly.  They complement one other. They’re capable of navigating this world and the crappy things that happen. They appreciate the joys and blessings of life and they love their people with a passion that only comes from recognizing the fragility of life. They’re stronger than they feel and more brilliant than they know. And they laugh…really laugh…from their soul…after years of trying to fake it.  

I may be biased but they are my heroes, my friends, my teachers and always my babies. And I am the luckiest mom in the world.