I’m writing this the day after Labor Day, the traditional first day of school here in Minnesota. As of this morning, I have a 4th grader, a 2nd grader, and a kindergartner. It’s just me and the two-year-old for seven hours a day.
I can’t stress enough that having just one kid at home with me is an almost unimaginable amount of freedom. My house is filled with the sound of cute toddler babbling instead of big kids bickering! At least for the next 30 minutes, when the remaining three-quarters of my kids walk through the door bursting with all their highs and lows and stressors and excitements of the day.
But of course, this silence comes with a trade-off: that oft-cited quote that to be a parent is “to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.”1
In the kind of bookish serendipity I love, I just finished a novel that left me weeping. It’s called The Happy Life of Isadora Bentley, and it will get a full book review at the end of the month. It’s not a sad book; it just pressed on a lot of old bruises.
The title character, Isadora, is different in a way that suggests some sort of neurodiversity. This is central to the plot. Through a series of flashbacks to Isadora’s elementary-school years, we learn that her differences in seeing the world made it difficult for her to make friends, through no fault of her own. Now, in her thirties, she still doesn’t know how to connect with people in a meaningful way.
Isadora’s story is not mine, but I’m afraid it will become my kids’. I’m sending three tender, quirky hearts into the world. At least two of them would be considered neurodiverse, odd in ways that make interacting with their peers a tricky thing.
The approach of a new school year always makes my own heart ache for theirs. I thought it might get easier as the years go on. I was wrong.
Parents have a tendency to helicopter. Yes, even you free-range, Montessori-inspired folks. (I’m raising my hand here.) Even if I’m not physically circling over my kids, I’m circling them in my mind.
I want to protect them from every bad thing. Today, even in these hours of relative peace and quiet, my mind is buzzing. My thoughts are not still. I may as well be standing at the front window, wringing my hands until I see the bus round the corner.
They are so small and vulnerable. What if I’m not doing a good enough job? What if I’m not advocating enough? What if I miss the signs that they’re sad or hurt or struggling?
I don’t know a single parent who doesn’t want their kids to have a great time at school. We all want them to be safe from bullies and violence; we all want their teachers to see and honor their specific way of learning. We all want our kids to do their very best and develop that genuine thirst for learning that comes from deep within.
But we can’t guarantee it. That’s kind of a big thing in Ignatian spirituality: We can’t force the outcome we want, not with our kids or our jobs or our tomato plants. And because we can’t force it, we are called to let it go.
In the Ignatian world, this is the idea of indifference or detachment. In an English-speaking culture, these words are negative. Indifference must mean I don’t care. Detachment is used to describe an unhealthy relationship style. These are not things parents should aspire to when it come to their kids!
But in Ignatian spirituality, indifference brings peace. It’s a way of seeing the world through the lens of both God’s will and our freedom to make our own choices. It doesn’t mean that we stop caring, not in the slightest. The spiritual practice of indifference invites us to let go of the things we can’t control anyway so that our upturned palms are open to the abundance of what God has to give.
Think of Mary, the ultimate maternal role model. She opened her entire life to God’s will, even knowing that it would also open her to a sword pierced through her soul (Luke 2:35).
Let me be clear here: I am not good at this. It doesn’t come easily to me to follow in Mary’s footsteps and let my kids be vulnerable to all the horrid things of this world. I’m writing this with gritted teeth, knowing that my job is to let go when all I want to do is hold tighter.
So. In an attempt to follow Mary’s lead, a prayer for a school year of indifference.
A Prayer of Indifference for a New School Year
Dear parents, and aunties, and grandparents: I see you circling the babies you love. They no longer need to be swaddled and rocked in your arms, but sometimes you still wish you could hold them just that close. To you, their stretched-out, big-kid selves are no less vulnerable than the day you first met them, gently supporting their floppy neck and flailing limbs.
No matter what their age or their school situation, their abilities or their challenges, their hearts are forever entwined with ours.
Yet . . .
Today, I pray you find peace in the gentle separation.
I pray you find joy in the center of the aching grief.
I pray they find at least one person who understands, who sees them as they are.
Mary, who sent her beloved son into the world, walking toward brutal death: hold all these babies in your comforting arms this school year. And hold their mamas too.
Teach us when to fight for them and when to let them take their own stand.
Give us gentleness when they are tender, and loving firmness when they are stubborn.
Share your patience when we are exasperated and your wisdom when we don’t know what to do.
Show us the beauty that can bloom when we stop circling and become still.
St. Gianna Beretta Molla, pray for us.
St. Elizabeth Ann Seton, pray for us.
St. Ignatius of Loyola, pray for us.
Mama Mary, pray for us.
You can learn more about Ignatian indifference from someone far wiser than I by listening to Tish Harrison Warren on the Things Not Seen podcast: “Laughing with Ashes on Our Heads.” Roughly the first half of the episode features a beautiful description of indifference, even in the face of heart-wrenching grief.
Do you have littles (or not-so-littles) headed back to school this year? I would love to hear your wisdom and your questions about letting them go.
I always thought this was just one of those cliches you see on Instagram or wall decor at Hobby Lobby, but I have just discovered that it’s a quote from Elizabeth Stone.
My goodness, friend, this was so beautiful. Thank you. I was thinking of you because I did an Ignatian silent retreat a few weeks ago! And lo and behold, we learned about the concept of indifference. I remember when I was in college and very drawn to Buddhism, that was a big part of it, the idea of detachment from things. From my retreat notes: "We need to develop and establish in ourselves an indifference to all created things and desire only what really leads us to God." This feels a bit tricky to me in that I do think surprising things can lead us to God (like our children), but I love the basic wisdom of the idea of letting go. (Hey! haha). It's so fundamental.