- Renee Rawlins Sande
- Oct 26, 2024
Updated: Nov 12, 2024
(Note: I started writing this in August, 2021, finishing it up over a year later.)
Our universe is 95.4% energy. Our energy is so powerful, it can be measured four-to-six feet from our body. Maybe this explains why you can feel my son enter the room, before you actually see him.
The other day, he literally zoomed in the door and ran around the rec room three times with our dog, Buddy, before flying up two flights of stairs to pack an overnight bag.
Within seconds, he was back down to drink half a jug of juice, pick me up and spin me around before he was out the door with a - “Staying at Ryans tonite. Love you!”
Feeling a lot dazed and a bit confused, Buddy looked at the door, then back at me - a couple times - before literally shaking his head and smiling his goofy dog smile. “I know, Bud,” I said, “That kid.”
But “that kid" (Easy E, as I nicknamed him early on) - when he isn’t going mach speed - also has this amazing calm about him.
From day one, he was my little buddha baby. In addition to his tubby belly (which, I’m sure he’d want you to know, he no longer has), he came into this world possessing an infectious combination of joy and calm that made you think, “Just what does this little guy know, that I should?”
I can see God in both my children’s eyes, but from the moment E’s personality started to really shine through, I could see something unique - a deeper connectedness, that just shone through his big, blue eyes so very brightly, like an inner beacon of light - a reminder that I (all of us, really) had something to learn from him.
For long stretches of time, he would sit sooo quietly, intently playing with his toys. Then I would simply say his name and he would look up and flash the biggest, all-in grin, his joy spilling over, because it was just so ever-present.
As he got older, his unfiltered zest for life grew so that he was running, bouncing - and yes - zooming around, leaving never-ending earthquake-esque messes in his wake (side note: new moms, take it from this neat freak’s 20/20 rearview mirror - let the house be strewn with toys, half-eaten PB&Js and muddy shoes more often than not, as it tells your family’s sweet story like folded socks and squeaky-clean tabletops can’t compare).
And it seemed he had a mission, which I will call Mission Hug: hugging anyone and everyone who would let him. And he excelled at it because, (a) he really didn’t give you a choice in the matter and, (b) he was (and still is) the best hugger. If there was a Nobel Peace Prize for such a title, he most certainly would win (a purely scientific, thorough evaluation; no motherly adoration was involved in this conclusion).
But it was his balance of calm and joy - that was so super-exceptionally awesome - that came from a very deep well in his old soul.
His ability to stay quiet, calm, and stoic, even in a (and I’m going to get really-real here) fairly loud and chaotic household at times, due to a marriage where both of us had a lot to learn, was a thing to behold. His patience with us was like that of any good teacher - full of faith that eventually we would heed the lesson being shown to us.
I remember being in awe of his natural inner peace, and thinking, that must be the key to finding pure joy - that which I felt was so elusive to me. But while I saw it in him so clearly, I didn’t understand how to attain it for myself - just yet.
Lucky for me, his lessons were persistent, even if he was completely unaware of it.
Then when he turned 14 - as surprising to this mom, as the increasing ability of his soccer cleats’ stink to take over an entire room - a bit of unrest, some attitude and low-key grumbling came with it.
I was at a loss at the sudden change and wondered, 'Where had my Easy E disappeared to?'
Eventually, I realized my complete oblivion: that he was human after all and a teenager and that he wasn’t immune to the occasional less-than-sunny outlook. But I worried (as is my right to worry about everything, as a mom), would his light ever return to its previous intensity?
Then one day, about two years ago, after wading through his room to find dishes that had gone missing and to make sure nothing had died under the mounds of everything, I found a bible next to his bed.
Since he was a self-proclaimed NON-reader (to this bibliophile’s dismay), it made my heart soar for two reasons: (1) my prayers had been answered (like God had reached down through the clouds to E, saying, ‘Here, read my NY Times bestseller; do it for your mom.") and he was actually reading a book - one that fed his soul and that he truly loved; and (2), it was proof for this mom that his light was still so strongly connected that he felt the need to make that relationship even stronger. Bonus - it also served as the springboard for this girl to finally realize how to find my calm, and in turn, more joy than I had known for a long time.
Flash forward to today and the kid is pushing 6 feet (very impatiently) with graduation drawing near, meaning he’ll be flying the coop soon. And I find myself responding to his "messes” by leaving them (that 20/20 hindsight kicking in again) and feeling my heart tug a bit. Okay, a lot.
But I’ve also found peace with it, because I’ve realized that, as a parent, I have been blessed beyond measure, to not only see his compelling story unfold in pure technicolor for the past 18 years, but to be given the gift of my growth, along the way, as well.
And I also know that he’ll always be my Easy E and that energy cannot be contained - especially the super, exceptionally-awesome kind that is meant to be shared with the world.
“Between stimulus and response there is a space.
In that space is our power to choose our response.
In our response lies our growth and our freedom.”
- Viktor Frankl, Holocaust survivor and Austrian psychiatrist
