When the manna runs out

I always thought that, if I were blessed with a child, I would grieve each stage as it passed. That I would cry when she stopped sleeping with her favorite blanket or started saying words correctly instead of with the adorable, yet incorrect, pronunciation of a young child. I thought I would be so sad to watch her grow because I love the baby and toddler and preschool stages so much.

So I was surprised when all of this actually happened, and I greeted each new stage with excitement and utter joy. I loved when she smiled and laughed those baby laughs. I loved when she rolled over for the first time, when she started crawling and then walking. I especially loved when she began talking because she said the most hilarious things.

One thing I do as a parent that I said I never would is that early on, I got into the habit of calling Matt “Daddy” when Kendall is around. I always thought it was so corny when spouses referred to one another as “Mom” and “Dad,” but I haven’t been able to help myself from falling into that same pattern. Well, I didn’t realize how bad it had become until one week, when I was putting Kendall down for her nap. I think she was around two years old.

On this particular occasion, I was finishing up our prayer, and I prayed for Matt to have a good day. Kendall’s little head snapped up from its restful position on my shoulder, and she sincerely asked, “Who’s Matt?”

Like all kids, she was so full of questions, even at the age of two. She would notice that I was upset about something, and she would ask, “Mommy [deliberate pause as the wheels in her head turned] . . . are you happy . . . or not?”  

One day, Kendall was playing at her little table, and she said matter-of-factly, “I am a writist.” I asked her to explain, and she replied, “Daddy’s an artist, and you are a writer.  So I am a writist.”

She loved playing with cars with her cousins, and she loved the movie Cars as well. We knew that she had watched the movie Cars one too many times when the light hit her glittery shoes, she called out joyfully, “Ka-Chow!”

Also in relation to cars, she once told me:  “Hubcaps are just like toenail polish for cars.”

One day, Kendall and I were enjoying an afternoon tea party, when a ladybug came crawling across the carpet – presumably on her way, albeit a bit belated, to our tea party. Kendall was just fascinated with her and picked her up and put her down and so on and so forth. I told her to be gentle, but to a two-year-old, that’s a bit like telling thunder to rumble more softly. 

I feared the worst when the ladybug ceased crawling and just lay there. Kendall looked at the ladybug, then looked up at me, her eyes knowing. “Needs batteries?” she asked.

When she was about four, Kendall wrapped up one of her Pez dispensers for me for Christmas, and when I opened it, she said (with all seriousness):  “Just pretend it’s one of those breakable things you like, and put it up in your room with the others!”

At her fifth birthday party, a princess party, her boy cousins got to wear knight costumes, while she and her girl cousin were princesses. Her cousin Gavin said to her, “You have to wear a princess dress. We get to wear armor!” 

Kendall promptly responded, “Well, I have a wand, and I can turn you into a toad with it!”

To me, these memories, these moments in time, are manna. God provided manna for His people as they wandered in the wilderness. They were hungry, and He lovingly and graciously fed them with manna. And it was good and wholesome and miraculous.

The people also grumbled about being tired of manna and needing some more variety in their diets, and I think we could make that correlation here with parenting as well. 

We have those manna moments where we laugh until our sides ache over the unexpected things that come out of the mouths of our little darlings, those times where we feel our hearts squeeze with love for these amazing creatures that God has entrusted to us. But we also have those moments of exasperation and exhaustion, where we’re calling on God for divine intervention as we navigate this parenting journey. 

But one day, the manna stopped coming. 

We read in Joshua 5:12 that the manna ceased the day after they ate of the produce of the land. And there was no longer manna for the people of Israel, but they ate of the fruit of the land of Canaan that year.

So the people are crossing over into the Promised Land. This is a wondrous thing! A glorious time! But I was saddened by this verse that the manna ceased. The miraculous manna that had sustained them in the wilderness just stopped. And I was saddened because that’s how it has felt to me as the parent of a teenager this past year. 

It’s as if all of the grieving that I didn’t do for each milestone she met along the way over these past 13 years has finally caught up to me. And the manna is gone. Those adorable quotes are no more. And what’s way, way, way worse is that I cannot fix things for her like I once could.

There was a time when a hug from Mom or Dad was all she needed to feel better after scraping her knee or getting spooked by something scary. And I realized during this past year that the manna has stopped on that one too. Not that she doesn’t need us anymore; in fact, she needs us more than ever in so many ways. 

But I cannot doctor the wounds of her day with a kiss or a hug or some sound advice anymore. I can do all of those things, and I do, and we talk for hours on end, ruminating on God’s truth and events and situations and relationships and conflicts at school and in the world. But I am no longer able to just fix life for her. 

I want to. Oh, how I wish I could! But sadly, I cannot. For years, we could give her a great birthday by buying her just the right toys and baking just the right cake and inviting just the right people to the party. We could take her out for ice cream and play her favorite games and read her favorite books, and life was grand. 

I realized last year, on her 13th birthday, how little control I had over what kind of day she had. I ordered fun surprises for her to open. We went to her favorite restaurant for dinner. We had her favorite dessert on hand. But someone she thought was a friend decided to be mean to her at school on her birthday, and no amount of Mom-and-Dad-ordained celebration could fix that. 

But, lest we become too melancholy here, that’s not the end of the verse. The manna stopped coming because the people were now eating the fruit of the land of Canaan that year. They had arrived in Canaan, and they were eating the fruit that had been promised to them. It was its own celebration time!

I believe – and I am so very new to this having-a-teenager thing – but I believe that, even though those squishy manna moments that so endeared her to us as a young child are gone, what we are left with is an even greater gift. And that’s the gift of getting to know the young adult she is becoming. 

In the midst of the turmoil that adolescence can be, with homework and friendship drama and all of the insecurities and challenges that come, I am cherishing the time she and I have together to just connect. I am learning that it’s okay that I cannot fix things for her. She doesn’t expect me to do that, even. 

She knows she has to stretch in order to grow, and that stretching can be painful. And she is up for the task. She and I both repeat Proverbs 31:25 over and over to ourselves as we go about our days – her at school and me wherever that day happens to take me. I am clothed with strength and dignity. I can laugh at the days to come.

I printed out a copy of that verse, laminated it, and stuck it in her backpack for her to reference on those hard days of middle school. I am clothed with strength and dignity. I can laugh at the days to come.

That fruit that the Israelites got to eat in Canaan? It was the richest of fare. It wasn’t second rate, last pick. No, it was the best! And I have these moments with Kendall now, not manna moments, but fruit moments. We can talk about real issues and deep thoughts, and she’s a remarkably insightful person. We had a girls’ weekend recently, just she and I, and she was the most delightful companion. 

So just to encourage other parents and grandparents of teens out there that, although those manna moments are gone (boo-hoo!), there are fruit moments we can enjoy right now (or very soon, at least!). The best is yet to come. When the manna runs out, there is weeping. We can grieve. That’s okay, healthy even. But then the fruit comes, and it is the very best fare.