When is our job as Moms over?

My mom used to tell me when I was younger that the job of being a parent is never over.  No matter how old we got, my mom would still worry about us:  where we were, if we were healthy, if we were safe.  I used to laugh when she told me that.  How can someone worry about their child once they turn a certain age, or once they get married and off on their own?  But now that I am a parent of two teen-agers, one who is now eighteen, I find out that there is great truth in that.

The other week my older son went on a bike ride and was gone for quite a long time.  I started to worry after almost an hour and wondered if he was okay.  My mind would conjur up images of him laying on the side of the read injured or worse.  I tried calling his cell phone but he had it turned off.  My emotions ranged from fear to anger that he didn’t have his phone on and I could not reach him.  Finally he came home after an hour and said that he had stopped by some friends.  Instantly I let him know that this was not acceptable, not having his phone on.  He thought it was silly that I worried so much over him.

But I’m a mom.  How do we stop worrying over them?  He’s still living at home so it’s quite easy to keep tabs on him.  But what about when he moves out on his own?  Do I make him call me every evening to let me know he’s okay?  No.  Because that would be acting paranoid.  How do I cut the apron strings now that he’s an official adult?  How do I release him into the Lord’s hands and know that whatever happens is going to happen regardless of how much I worry. 

I want to have peace over raising two sons.  I love them so much that I think it would kill me if anything terrible happened to them.  Parenting is so hard but so worth it, I believe.  I want to stop being so afraid whenever they walk out that door.  It is out of my hands.  They are in God’s hands and He will take care of them.  All I can do is my very best, and to love them and let them know each day how much I care.  So I see myself as an eighty-year old in a rocking chair in some nursing home and fretting over where my sixty-one year old son is.  Lord, give me peace.  That’s a whole lot of years of worrying!

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