Through my entire life I've been surrounded by the metaphor of parenting as archer, launching his arrows (a quiverful of them, ideally) into the world; by faith, extending his/her influence into the generations to come. That metaphor came to define my life, as it progressively inspired, challenged, eluded, and then tortured me, as it became evident that God and I didn't see eye to eye about the size of my quiver, and I realized that arrows can frequently (heartbreakingly frequently) fall from quiver, straight to the ground, un-launched, never held in the archers hand.
Today a friend shared this poem with me. I read it, ugly-cried for about twenty minutes, and realized for the first time in my life that I have long misunderstood the metaphor.
I'm not the archer.
I'm the bow.
All that is required of me is that I bend, to the breaking point perhaps, and then... Let go. I do not need to see the target. I do not need to aim anything. I do not need to make the arrow, hold the arrow (my heart!), string it correctly-- no skill of mine is required. His is the quiver, his is the watchful eye, the strength to launch, the wisdom to test the wind, proof the arrow, and guide it true to the heart of chosen target. All that is asked of me is that I devote my life to bend and bend and bend under the hand of the Archer; who loves me, and these Arrows, which are His, not mine. Bend, and then, by God's grace, let them go.
And a woman who held a babe against her bosom said, Speak to us of Children.
And he said:
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.
