Scattered, Smothered, and Covered: Holding On While Letting Go
A decade ago our son asked us if we would take a group of his friends to the beach for his birthday. Are you kidding? We couldn’t say yes fast enough. What an honor to be asked to step in and be a part of something that was important to him!
There I stood, rearranging the kitchen island as the food dwindled and a new wave of hunger rolled in. I was running on four shaky hours of sleep, glancing around a beach house filled with 15 young adults—most of them towering over me—when the phrase “scattered, smothered, and covered” popped into my head.
Huh? Where did that come from?
I’m a woman full of seemingly random thoughts that, when followed, usually connect something in my heart to something my mind can grasp. But if I’m not mistaken, “scattered, smothered, and covered” is a Waffle House phrase. What in the world?
I only have two real memories tied to Waffle House.
One was sitting in a booth with three kids before sunrise during Ward’s elementary school years, reviewing flashcards while waiting for waffles because early morning play practice required creativity and caffeine.
The other went back even further—before children, before minivans, before life revolved around school calendars and grocery lists. Somehow, I had actually been recruited by Waffle House for management while also entertaining a possibility with Victoria’s Secret using my fashion merchandising and marketing degree. I remember laughing and thinking, Who knew scrambled eggs paid so well? I passed on both opportunities, and that was pretty much my entire Waffle House story.
Yet there I was, years later, with “scattered, smothered, and covered” rolling through my mind while standing in the middle of a season I didn’t fully understand.
As the house quieted and full bellies headed to the beach, I realized something: my heart felt scattered, smothered, and covered.
The Sunday before this trip, I dropped my youngest off at high school camp for the first time.
Middle school—check. Done. Season over. For her. For me.
I processed that as she pulled out of the parking lot with her permit in hand and returned home to a house full of 17- and 18-year-olds preparing for a trip to Florida.
That same morning, I hugged oldest goodbye as she left for Kentucky to visit grandparents, then Tennessee to see her boyfriend (now hubby), before flying through Philly and London on her way to Kenya. By the time I got home, she would be on the other side of the world.
Meanwhile, I laid in bed in a tiny Florida town, listening to laughter at 2:00 a.m.—deep, booming voices of young men, girls’ giggles in the background fueling the chaos. By the end of the week, those same voices would carry tears as reality set in.
This wasn’t my first rodeo. I knew the trip would be a gift—but also the beginning of the end of another season.
For them. For me.
So, when Lane rolled over at 2:26 a.m. and said, “I’ll go ask them to keep it down,” I whispered, “No, it’s okay. Let them have the time.”
What I really meant was, let me have the time.
Let me hear it.
Let me soak it in.
Let me hold onto this moment a little longer.
I didn’t want Ward to miss it. I didn’t want to miss it.
There will be time to sleep when he’s gone—and that day was coming too fast.
In the quiet of the night, I realized pieces of my heart were scattered across places and seasons. Where would I even begin with the prayers? I was praying for my youngest when a late-night text from my oldest popped up—asking for prayer before boarding an eight-hour flight, her leg in pain. Laughter filled the house, and I’m suddenly aware that this time next year, my son would be heading to college.
Scattered. Completely scattered.
There were moments when the weight of transition threatened to smother me. (They still do!) I don’t live by my feelings, but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel. In fact, ignoring the emotions that come with children growing up and leaving home is dangerous.
We are made for relationship. The way we build and show its value is through time.
Time was slipping.
There was less time with Ansley as she pursued her calling. Less time with Ward as he approached launch—one foot in, one foot out ready to fly.
And with Lilly, there was less physical time. She was learning to drive—which meant she was learning to leave. That license they hold is also a license to practice being away.
And it’s good for them.
It might even be good for us.
The reality of loss—because it is a kind of loss—is hard. And sometimes, it threatens to smother us. Grief must grieve in order for it to pass. Make room and invite it.
And then covered.
Thank goodness I am loved my Heavenly Father. Praise God I am His child and I know He comforts well. He holds me, His child, when I must let mine go.
He did.
He does.
He will do the same for you.
He covers us!
All your children belong to God. He covered them when we didn’t know what we were doing, when we failed, forgot and flaked in every way possible. He covered them when the strain of growing children and relationships attempted to bury us. And, if we will lean in, He will, by His Spirit, invite us to join Him by showing us how to cover them and the generations to come with His prayers and His promises over their lives.
Scattered, smothered and covered. Who knew??
Taste and see that the Lord is good.
So are His ways even when He uses Waffle House to speak.
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