Mothers are Professionals.

After 23 years of parenting, putting four children through school, I am ready for some official recognition of my credentials. I would love to create an official licensing service for parents, to recognize their expertise. I might not be an expert in all children, but I sure am about mine.

My kids struggle to overcome dyslexia. This gift and disability means their full potential which is sky high finds itself earthbound by their struggles to communicate what they understand and know.

Those professional educators who have the privilege of teaching my children know a lot about education and teaching techniques. I appreciate their knowledge and training. But they do not understand how dyslexia functions and how to best unlock it.

In a nutshell, they believe if my kids would just try harder, practice more, do more exercises and learn more tricks, they could perform like everyone else, which quite frankly, is actually less than they are capable of given the right opportunity.

Our high school desperately needs a workshop to educate the teachers on this issue, as do colleges, especially where my girls attended. But when I discussed this yesterday, one of the advocates for this said, "We'd have to bring in professionals."

Makes sense, and I hope they do it. But just once I'd love to stand before them all and give them my parent's perspective, tell them what its like to watch a kid not be able to read an assignment, even a prompt for one, to not be able to tell one homonym from another, to misspell things so extremely that the spell checker can't figure it out, or even worse, supplies a different word that does not fit, and worst of all, to watch them sit frozen unable to unleash the torrent of ideas in their brilliant minds in a fashion that the verbal world can understand.

I won't get to do that, so forgive me for taking it out on you, kind reader, who bother to come here and see what I have to say.

To Be Known

This week I had two interactions with classmates of my children, now grown or almost. The first encounter occurred at the grocery store. I thought I recognized a young woman the age of my oldest, 23. Her maturity took me aback, having not seen her for so long, but I decided that indeed she must be who I thought she was.

When she ended up next to me in line I said her name and she acknowledged that she had recognized me, even though she remained reticent to talk to me until I persisted. We compared notes on the latest on our families.

Later that night after a swim meet at a local private school I was standing in the hall and a young man I did not recognize said to me, "I'm Jermaine" (not his real name). We began to talk and he remembered not only Wesley, his kindergarten classmate and friend, but Junia who broke her arm on a bike ride when Jermaine was present.

The attitude of the first young woman seems more typical, to respond when approached, but not to initiate a conversation with a mother of one of your contemporaries you haven't seen in years.

I am still intrigued by this young man's statement to me, "I'm Jermaine," obviously wanting to be known, saying his name and expecting that would call up my memory and I would know him.

Beyond our school connection Jermaine and his family had briefly participated in our church, which is how he was present on that bike ride. I felt sad when they drifted away, and encountering him so many years later renews that longing to connect with this family spiritually.

And I think his statement also reminds me of our innermost longing, to be known. To be recognized. To be remembered. And expecting that the stating of our name would awaken that recognition in others.

I anticipate the day when not only will I meet Jesus face to face and he will know me by name, but he will give me a new name, which no one else knows, and in that moment of renaming I will become more fully myself than I have ever been.

Meanwhile, I am looking for those I know, to acknowledge and validate their existence. Thank you, Jermaine.

The Night Before Bliss

Twenty-three years ago tonight I went to bed totally unaware of the bliss to dawn the next morning. I was 10 days away from my expected due date for my first-born child. I awoke that morning with my water breaking. I went to my computer and put finishing touches on church work so I could be off for the next 6 weeks.

Later on February 4 I held in my arms a healthy daughter we named Nora after my mother, who was there to witness her birth. I figured by the time my six weeks of maternity leave ended, I'd be chomping at the bit to get back to work.

When that day came, I would have walked away from my job had I not felt as responsible for my new church as I felt for my new child. So I juggled both parenting jobs together, the pastorate and the baby.

I loved that first edition so much, we had three more. People used to say to me when they saw me dragging around four children born within six years of each other, "You've got your hands full." My comeback became, "Joyfully so." I wrote a song about it later that asked, "Who wants empty hands?"

My hands are becoming empty these days. Nora attends grad school in Baltimore, Junia is graduating from Wheaton this year, Luke is now a freshman at UK, and Wesley will launch to college in less than two years. I'm losing my favorite job.

On this eve of the day I became a mother 23 years ago, I praise God for the blessing of four amazing children. They challenge me daily with their wisdom, compassion and capacity for growth.

This week also holds other memories. Saturday will be nine years since my mother died. Her only ambition in life was to be a mother, and I didn't really grasp until she was gone how grateful I was for her legacy in that vein.

So Nora, as you reach a new milestone, thank you for who you are. And to the rest of my children, for being more of a good thing. And Roger, you've been a great partner in parenting.

I'll miss seeing my girl tomorrow. But I am glad she is happily occupied in her own world. Keep it up beautiful daughter!