The Slow Lane Epiphany
The story of Hannah has always been one of the most heart-wrenching pictures in my mind. We see her caught in a season of endless waiting, taunted relentlessly by Peninnah, pouring her heart out at the altar, and pleading with God for a child.
And then, after all that burning grief, she simply hands her son over to God.
It makes absolutely no human sense.
Why cry so bitterly for a child, only to hand him over just a few years later? Why beg for a miracle if it only leads back to empty arms? It is a story that never sat well with me. For a long time, the only way I could process her sacrifice was to put a halo on top of Hannah’s head. I labelled her a superwoman, a saint, and decided her life was a beautiful mystery; but certainly not a blueprint for normal women.
That made me ask the question: what does it all mean? What did it mean that she handed him back? Was my God a sadist who gives me good gifts and then snatches them back, or do I think He is a godfather who makes unfair trades? Is this only relevant for children? Marriages? Earthly possessions?
Wow. I don’t want to open Pandora's box. Where does it stop?
And as usual, the Lord has a way of interrupting my reverie during another one of my daily commutes to work. The unsettling answers didn't come to me through a theological textbook; they met me right in the middle of the morning rush hour, colliding with my real life in a moment that turned entirely cinematic.
My son, a teenager who had recently got his driving licence, had been following me, cheekily keeping right behind my car as we drove bumper to bumper through the village roads. He is a good driver, and I was proud. He is still my child, and I was petrified. Proud and petrified at the same time. Before long, we were driving into the four-lane motorway. Speed limits had soared up. But I had to carry on in the slowest lane as I had to get off at the next junction.
As I merged into traffic, suddenly I noticed through the corner of my eye a familiar car driving parallel, and an even more familiar face grinning and waving at me. My heart stopped and my eyes welled up. In a fraction of a second, the roar of his engine surged as he crossed the lanes till he was on the fastest lane, zipping at speeds I don't usually drive. Sunlight flashed off his rear window as he drove away, rapidly shrinking, until his car was just a distant, glittering blob in the sea of cars.
Have you felt the feeling where your thoughts merge and collide and scramble all at the same time? I wanted to follow him, I wanted to protect him, I wanted to scold him, and I wanted to pat his back because I was proud.
But he had much further to go, and I had to get off at the next junction.
And this is where the Lord spoke to me in subtitles.
The subtitles flashing across my mind were sharp, loving, and absolute: “LET HIM GO.”
And with those words, the ancient dust of Shiloh collided with the asphalt of the motorway. The halo I had placed on Hannah’s head vanished, and I realized a profound truth: there is a Hannah inside all of us mothers. We carry the exact same human terror, the same heavy assignment, and the same quiet assurance that Hannah had received.
We are not superheroes. We are simply mothers who must eventually learn that love and control are not the same thing.
For eighteen years, I did everything humanly possible to keep my boy safe. When my baby sat in my car, I was the one who securely buckled his baby seat; then tightened the straps on his toddler booster, and then years later double-checked his seatbelt. He learned the rules of the road by watching me drive. Kids learn more from watching us than from what we teach. Fact!
But that morning on the motorway, the Lord showed me that the season of buckling him in was over. My teenager was now in his own driver's seat, heading toward his destination that was further away from mine.
He has further to go, his own mistakes to make, his own lessons to learn, and even his own fines to pay. I am strictly forbidden from chasing him into the fast lane. He has a longer road to travel, and I am not called to be his windshield wiper or his bumper guard.
Hannah had reached this exact cliffside of faith, when she took a deep breath, and declared:
“So now I give him to the Lord. For his whole life he will be given over to the Lord” (1 Samuel 1:28).
The subtitle that followed on my windscreen was an absolute command: Focus on ME.
God was telling me to watch my own speed, to stay securely in my own lane, and to avoid crashing into the car directly in front of me. It was as if the Holy Spirit was illuminating the words of Proverbs 4:25-27 right there on the dashboard:
Let your eyes look straight ahead; fix your gaze directly before you. Give careful thought to the paths for your feet and be steadfast in all your ways. Do not turn to the right or the left; keep your foot from evil.
I have prayed for eighteen years for my boy, pleading his safety into every road his tyres will ever touch; and I will continue to pray. But the time has come to let go of the steering wheel of his life and focus on staying within my own boundaries.
The laws of the land keep both of us safe. The white lane boundaries flashing past on the road are there for our mutual protection. Spiritual boundaries in life operate the exact same way; they keep us intact. When we overextend our emotional energy trying to force our way into our children's fast lanes, we neglect our own walk with God. We stop watching our own speed, risking a catastrophic crash of our own.
Hannah wasn't a mythological saint because she handed Samuel over; she was just a mother who understood that her son belonged to the Creator's bigger story and not to her personal kingdom. Like her, we are not called to relinquish our love.
We are just called to relinquish our control.
Letting Go
Letting go is the quietest, most excruciating ache of motherhood. We are built to protect our kids, and stepping back feels like giving up on them. Whether you are terrified for a child who is making dangerous mistakes, or incredibly proud of a child who is wildly successful, don't you see that you were never called to hold on to them forever?
We are not asked to let go because God will automatically do a better job of keeping them safe. We are asked to let go because they were never ours to keep. We are called to nurture and teach and pour into them, but never as an investment whose returns we are betting on. They were never given to us as a source of identity, or pride or as a retirement plan. They were entrusted to us for a season. They have a part in God's plan and story just as much as we do; not after us, and definitely not after we have finished using them. Our indispensable assignment was to hold them, build them and prepare them for this exact departure.
Hannah was able to walk away because she leaned into this beautiful promise:
He will guard the feet of his faithful servants, but the wicked will be silenced in the place of darkness. It is not by strength that one prevails; (1 Samuel 2:9).
God is already out there in their future, shining a light on the roads we cannot see. Gently let go of a life that was always meant to grow up and move on. Trust God with your child in the distance and focus on your own life right here.
And remember, God treats you, His child, in exactly the same way. He gives you the total freedom to choose your own path, yet He never stops watching over you. As Psalm 121:8 promises,
“the Lord will watch over your coming and going both now and forevermore.”
You can safely release your child into their own journey, because the same God who keeps you safe within your boundaries is watching over both of you, each and every mile of the way.
It’s hard to let go. I love how you connected each of our stories to Hannah. Amazing ❤️
ReplyDeleteTimely reminder that I am not in control or responsible for their future...thanks da…
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