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The Things You Learn When You’re a Mother

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From the day your children are born, you begin the letting go.

You, who miraculously sheltered them inside of your own body for nine months, suddenly must hand your tightly swaddled wonders over to visitors, to grandparents, to doctors and nurses. Your heart feels like it could shatter just to look into a tiny face that is at once so foreign and so familiar.

You live difficult and long and exhausting nights, sitting alone in the dark with a restless squirmer in your arms, wondering how it could be that you are a mama, that you are the one who is supposed to figure this out, that you have been entrusted with the awesome, terrifying task of training this child in the way she should go. In one long, draining night you drift between wanting to shove the baby in her father’s arms and wanting to cling to her desperately, willing yourself to remember exactly how little she feels laid there on your shoulder in the peaceful, lonely silence of three in the morning.

You are so tired.

And then children grow. With every new milestone you are forced to let go just a little bit more. Crawlers become walkers who become runners, and crying drop offs turn into casual waves goodbye. Soon you are standing at a kindergarten door, watching your child’s eyes, wide with excitement, and you see he is convinced that his life is finally beginning.

More and more, you are driven to your knees, finding yourself begging the God of the Universe to stay close, to hold your children in His perfect hands, to hover when you can’t. You learn how weak you really are. How anxious. How much is out of your control. You learn to trust Jesus more. You learn to wrestle with the what ifs, and you ask again and again for the gift of more faith, praying that if in the end all you really have is Jesus, that will be enough.

Meanwhile, every day they come home. Every day they grow more and learn more and become more of who they were created to be. And, you just keep white knuckling every new step along the path to their growing up. Somehow, every move shows you more about God’s love and care. Each inch forward helps you relax your grip on your children and tighten your grip on your Savior.

And, maybe that is the real gift of motherhood. In all of the letting go, there is the desperate need to hold on. To cling to Christ and admit that He is the only unchanging thing. The only constant. In a life of never-ending change, in a life of unspeakable joy and inevitable heartbreak, in a life that is as much wrapped up in your children as it is yourself, you are pushed toward the admission that all of it is really about Jesus. And that’s how you let go when you have to. That’s how you allow your children to be who they are. That’s how you survive every phase and every exhaustion and every worry.

From the day your children are born, you begin letting go. And you learn to hold on. Jesus never moves, never changes, never disappoints. These are the things you learn when you’re a mother.

When You’re Stumbling Through the Dark, Worship Anyway

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Today I sat with a family as they cried and laughed and celebrated the man who built their life. He was almost 91.

I sat with a young widow, in the living room that she and her husband had furnished together, their little boys running around underfoot as we tried to comprehend the total life change that had just happened. The Christmas tree they had decorated on Sunday stood by the window. He was a good man. He was 31.

Today I sat with friends at a kitchen table, and we tried to understand God’s timing and His higher ways. Hot tears filled our eyes as we wrestled with the truth that in his heart a man plans his course, but the Lord determines his steps.

I came home to my sweet husband and my babies with a heavy heart. The pain of this life is so real.

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On a whim Chad and I decided to drag out all of our Christmas decorations and start putting up the tree. The kids were so excited, helping carry big boxes, squealing with excitement each time one was opened and they saw the trinkets and shiny proofs that Christmastime is almost here. We cranked up the Christmas music, and I let the kids stay up a little later than usual.

Just before I tucked her in, Emerald spotted a nativity set that is sitting, still boxed, in the middle of our living room. It’s just Joseph and Mary and baby Jesus, simple figures to grace a tabletop someplace. She pointed to the box and insisted that Jesus lights up. I’m not sure why she thought that, but I told her repeatedly that the set doesn’t light up. They’re just statues, I told her. I tucked her in, and when I left she was lying there, little girl in her big bed, blankie draped lovingly over her shoulder, leafing casually through a toy catalog that had come in the mail today. ‘

I stepped into the hallway, and almost ran smack into our non-lighted baby Jesus. I smiled at Emerald’s hard-headed persistence. Our Jesus doesn’t light up, I thought. But, then the words to a song played in my head: Light of the world, you stepped out into darkness… 

This life can feel dark. Foreboding. It can be devastating and heart-breaking and sad. This life sometimes feels like all mourning and no dancing. Terrible things happen. Bodies get old and die. Young men kiss their wives and walk out the door, never to come home again. We get overloaded with more than we can handle. And, we feel like we’re suffocating in the dark of a sin-stained world full of death and unfulfilled expectations and plans that were supposed to be so perfect that ended in awful ways.

But, that’s why we have the manger. That’s why Emerald was actually more right than she knows when she insisted that our Jesus lights up. He came to that little hay bed when He could’ve been comfortably installed on a throne in Heaven, and He came for one reason: because He knew how desperately we need His light.

So, I know it’s almost Thanksgiving, and many of you don’t want to think about Christmas yet. But, on Thursday when you gather around the table with your family, stop for a moment in the middle of a dark and dangerous world, in the middle of the joys and heartaches of living this life, and thank God in Heaven for the Light of the World who showed up in a manger one night. He chases away the dark. And, if you’re in the middle of the sacred night right now, one of those moments when you realize just how broken this world really is, where the only thing you have to cling to is that baby in the manger and His eternal majesty and goodness, then sing with me a song of worship, even while we sit in the dark: Here I am to worship, Here I am to bow down, Here I am to say that You’re my God…

Worship Him, even here. And, He will honor it.

Believing God at the Burning Bush

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Confession time.

I have a big task in front of me that God seems to want me to do. All signs point to yes. All circumstances have led me to believe that God has chosen me to do this big thing. And, at every turn in this long process I seem to be telling God that He has chosen the wrong person.

I feel like Moses at the burning bush. God called him. And, Moses assured God that He had made a poor choice.

Moses said to the Lord, “Pardon your servant, Lord. I have never been eloquent, neither in the past nor since you have spoken to your servant. I am slow of speech and tongue.”

The Lord said to him, “Who gave human beings their mouths? Who makes them deaf or mute? Who gives them sight or makes them blind?Is it not I, the Lord? Now go; I will help you speak and will teach you what to say.”

But Moses said, “Pardon your servant, Lord. Please send someone else.”

Then the Lord’s anger burned against Moses. . . Exodus 4:10-13

But, He provided a way, as He does. Brother Aaron, Moses’ mouthpiece as he relayed the words of God.

Now, God isn’t telling me to confront a pharaoh and call down His wrath on Egypt. In fact, if you knew what my big thing is you would probably laugh. Still, this job seems just a little bit beyond me.

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I just have to keep reminding myself that I don’t dictate to the God of the universe who He should choose for all the different work He has going on in this world. And, if He says I’m the one for this task, then I have to trust that He knows what He’s talking about and He will provide a way. In other words, it’s time for me to stop telling God He has the wrong person, and start having the confidence that He will give me the ability to do the job.

What about you? Have you been trying to convince God that He shouldn’t have chosen you? That your circumstances are too big for Him? Let’s just say it together: I trust you, Lord. Send me.

Sometimes It Hurts. Keep Going Anyway.

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Today we stepped nervously into the mall. I was holding our three year old baby Emerald by the hand while she confidently led us to the ear piercing stand in the center of the building. She knew exactly where she was going and exactly what she wanted to do.

For days I had questioned her over and over again. Are you sure you want to get your ears pierced?  It’s gonna hurt. Are you positive that you don’t mind the pain? Are you really, really sure?

And, every single time, she answered right away with a grin, Yep, I’m sure.

When we got close enough to see the sparkly earrings in their display cases, I felt certain she would back out. When her daddy began signing all of the papers I waited for her to say, No, thank you. I changed my mind.

When I sat her all alone on the tall chair and the little piercing gun came out, I was ready to swoop in and rescue her if she showed just the slightest sign of  faltering in her confidence. Her cheeks grew pink. I asked her if she was nervous. No, she answered. This is just the face I make when I’m really excited.

I could see that she was scared. But, she never for a single moment gave into her fear. She knew without any doubt that whatever pain she was about to experience was going to be well worth it on the other side, when she could finally get a glimpse of her newly decorated ears in a mirror someplace.

The first earring went in. Her expression revealed some shock. Definite pain. But, she looked straight ahead and tilted her head to the side to indicate she was ready for the second earring. She closed her eyes tight, and it was done. Not a single tear shed. Not a single exclamation of how that actually really hurt a lot. Just a quiet smile and red little ears that held precious tiny pearl studs.

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There is no question that it was a painful experience. But, when it was over, she was transformed. A little bit bigger. A little bit braver. A little bit more convinced that she can do things that are hard.

While I watched her strut around the mall with her newly decorated ears, I couldn’t help thinking about all of the people I know who are going through painful experiences right now. An illness. The loss of a loved one. A deep wound inflicted by a friend. Money troubles. Problems at work. Marriage issues.

It would be so easy to look at the painful circumstances that loom ahead of us and just decide that we will never survive them. To declare that God has messed up and there is nothing inside of us that is remotely tough or determined or ready. We could just bury ourselves in sorrow, burrow into the loneliness and the uncertainty and give up on finding peace or bravery or assurance ever again. We could shout loud to the world that our God isn’t quite good enough, that our faith isn’t quite sincere enough.

Emerald had plenty of time to decide that she wasn’t ready for the pain. There were hundreds of tiny steps between the mall entrance and  the site of her hurt and her triumph. But, she just kept walking, holding my hand, reminding herself that the end result would be worth it all.

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We have hundreds of chances to give up on God. To give in to the pain. To let our fear rule us. But, there is nothing like holding His hand, walking through the hurt, and coming out on the other side with a new sense of our worth. With a new appreciation for the strength and bravery that comes from knowing Him.

And, all the while, we can remind each other of every mercy that descends from Heaven. Of the big payoff on the other side of all the pain. He is near. He never leaves us or forsakes us. And, with every hurt that we survive, our God story grows. Before we know it, the beauty of Christ is hanging all over us, like the sweet pearl earrings in Emerald’s slightly bruised ears. It isn’t easy. It hurts. It takes a while to look in the mirror and see what God is doing in us. But, it’s there. He is working. And He is making something beautiful out of our hurts.

All day we have been taking Emerald to the mirror so that she can admire the results of her bravery. I doubt she would want to go back and endure the pain again. But, she sure is glad that she decided to keep walking when she could’ve turned back. You will be, too. Keep going. Keep trusting. Someday the pain will be erased forever. But, the beauty will remain.

Sing Anyway

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When our first baby was only about six weeks old, Chad and I decided to drive to another town for dinner.  She had been a difficult newborn, to say the least.  She had terrible acid reflux that had yet to be diagnosed, and she cried for hours at a time.  Chad was a young lawyer, struggling to keep up with his work load.  I was a stressed, exhausted first time mom, just trying to keep my head above water, while mostly drowning in my own discouragement and desperation to figure out why my baby wouldn’t just be happy.

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So, we threw all caution to the wind and we drove off with our precious little doll all strapped in the backseat, determined to enjoy a dinner out and possibly salvage some semblance of what our pre-baby life had been like.  It was quite a distance from our small town to any place, but the hour-long drive went off without any kind of ruckus from the backseat.  Sweet Adelade slept soundly all the way there.  We were elated.  We arrived at the restaurant, gingerly carried her inside, and, mercy of all mercies, she slept through the ENTIRE DINNER.  We hardly knew what to do with ourselves.

We tiptoed back to our car, whispering all the way so as not to ruin this gloriously quiet evening.  Chad put the car in gear, and we were off.  About two minutes later, Adelade awoke.  It was almost as if she woke up, realized that we had tricked her into sleeping for two hours, and erupted into a furious frenzy of choking, squirming, sweaty, outraged crying.

We stopped the car. We tried feeding her. We tried cuddling her. Bouncing her. Burping her. Changing her diaper.  We tried reasoning with her.  Begging her.  Still, the crying continued.  Just when we thought it couldn’t possibly get louder or more pitiful, it did.  She was red-faced and tear-stained.  No paci, blankie, mommy, or daddy could fix this problem.  Adelade was going to cry, and there was nothing we could do about it.

Finally, we decided we couldn’t sit in our car for the rest of the night.  We had to get home, where at least we could put on comfortable pants while the crying jag continued.  So, we did the only thing we could do.  We strapped that furious little baby girl back into her car seat.  And we drove.

For the first ten minutes, we sat in silence, listening miserably to our baby’s pitiful cries.  My hands were clenched in my lap.  Chad’s knuckles were white as he held tightly to the steering wheel.  Then, suddenly, he released his death grip on the wheel and reached over to turn on the radio.

He found a country station, and he turned it up loud.  Quietly at first, we started singing along.  Adelade continued to cry her little heart out.

After a few minutes, a good old 90s country song came on.  We sang as loud as Adelade cried.  We looked at each other and started to smile a little bit.  When the next song started, we kept singing. Pretty soon, he was drumming on the steering wheel, and I was playing air guitar, and we were grinning at each other in the dark, even while our hearts were aching for our sweet first child, crying endlessly through the clear Texas night.

We could’ve ridden home in tense silence, taking every single sad little noise from the backseat straight to our hearts.  We could’ve wallowed in the misery of the sixth week of a baby who needed medicine that the doctor hadn’t yet prescribed.  We could’ve easily cried ourselves, letting the frustration and exhaustion overtake us.

But, instead of doing any of those things, we sang.  We didn’t forget about our miserable little charge back there.  Far from it. But, we did learn, on that longest hour-long drive of all time, that sometimes you just have to sing anyway. Sometimes when you’re driving through the miserable dark of a rough time, you just have to sing like it’s all going to be okay.  And then you have to trust that God is going to make it okay.  Because He is.

I don’t remember how the rest of our night went once we got our little yowler home.  I’m betting that the crying continued throughout the night, as it did most every night.  It would be two more weeks before we would discover the miracle medicine that turned her into the happiest, most delightful little baby we ever met.  But, I’ll never forget that longest drive through the dark, when we remembered that sometimes, when you’re at your most helpless, when your tears have been cried and exhaustion is taking over, when you feel like you’re close to crumbling in defeat, it helps to sing anyway.  Sing.  Trust.  Remember His goodness.  Remember His blessings.  Smile a little.

And, before you know it, the long, dark ride is over, and you’re sitting on your couch in your comfortable pants with a smiling baby on your knee.  Or something like that.

Sing anyway.  And, wait to see what He will do.

Smiling into the Shadows of Life

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I noticed her sitting there at Gate B3, when she told an airline employee that her son was coming to pick her up.  We were sitting at a departure gate, waiting for the plane that would carry us across the country.  I have three sons, she said, with her hand pressed to her forehead, I just can’t remember the name of the one who’s coming to get me.

The attendant asked to see her boarding pass. They dug through bags together to find the piece of paper that held information that the woman couldn’t hold in her mind.

I want to go home, she announced.  She turned to those seated near her and gestured with age-spotted hands to the crowds of people rushing past.  Do you know where all these people are going?

After the attendant looked at her computer, she nodded knowingly, and in a few minutes the pilot came out, gathering the woman and her things to put them on the plane.  She followed him like an obedient child, with no notion of where she was going.

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When we landed, the pilot came to hold her hand and her bags.  He told her where she was.

I felt pity for her as she was led off of the plane in her confused state, searching for the son who might be there to get her, knowing that if he did come, she wouldn’t even know his name.

As I hurried off of the plane with the other young rushers, she sat in a wheelchair manned by her unnamed son, who did come to pick her up after all.  I heard his sigh.  Yes, mother, we’re going to get to spend a LOT of time together.  Her hands were folded neatly on top of her purse.  She was smiling.

She looked oddly beautiful sitting there, peacefully accepting her utter confusion.

And, in that moment I realized that maybe I am actually the one to be pitied.  I, the one who has a tendency to kick and scream like a temperamental toddler when God gathers me up to lead me into the unknown.  When confusion sets in.  In the where-am-I-going moments.

I want to trust God with the leading.  I’m so glad I ran into her today, peaceful smiler, looking into an unknow-able future with joy.  I hope she enjoys her time with her son, whatever his name is.

When All You Can Do Is Trust God

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Her eyes were already puffy and red, but the tears just kept streaming down her face.  I could tell that she was trying to contain the panic;  fear was so close to the surface, and the worry poured out her heart in tiny salty droplets on her eyelashes and freckled cheeks.

She begged me not to leave.

I held her and patted her back like I was beating a drum worn smooth.  The wet spot on my shirt grew as the tears continued to flow.  Trust God.  Trust God, I whispered to her soul and mine.  I could feel the slight nod of her head, buried in my side.  Little ostrich, hiding from the truth of the goodbye.

She made a magazine for me to read on the airplane.  It is filled with horse drawings and jokes and funny stories.  I stapled it together for her and held it to my chest in a gesture of enthusiasm.  She smiled, and then she cried.

And I held her close enough to feel the weight of her worry.

She is so much like me.  I know that weight.  We all have crosses.  Tonight hers was a goodbye in a doorway, light and life in our cozy home versus the dark unknown of a world where her mama ventured.

I hear that by the time she carried that weight to bed, she was smiling again.  I hope my words were ringing true in her heart as she laid her head on her very cozy, very familiar lady bug pillow:  Trust God.  Trust God.

In America We Trust: Who Do Christians Really Believe In?

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Christianity is a hard faith to live out.  Sometimes it’s a hard faith to speak up for.  To the world, it looks like foolishness.  To those who don’t have opened eyes and ears and hearts, this faith looks downright crazy.

But, to those of us who have been touched by the mercy of God, who have been transformed by the living Savior, who have been redeemed in the most dramatic sense, the Christian way is simply the only way.  The Truth.  Freedom.  Grace. Peace.

And, this faith, this Savior, is strong enough to endure the attacks of this world.  The jeers, the jokes, the threats, and the ill will.  They are nothing new, not to this Jesus, who said that the world hated Him long ago.  Not to the God who was handling the foolish decisions of man from the first days of creation.

But, America, we say!  America is different!  Here, we worship as we please, with the blessing of our government.  America is wise and wonderful and it is a Christian nation.  And then subpoenas in Houston.  And we crumble.  And we wonder where our faith ends up if America collapses out from under it.

We grow fearful. We have somehow intertwined our faith in God with our faith in this country.  We see this intertwining on display every time we turn the Lord’s Day into a patriotic parade.   We feel this intertwining when we hear God’s name drop from the lips of a celebrity on an awards stage.  We cling to this intertwining even as our country takes baby steps away from Christianity and its tenets.

mailOne day, we may wake up to find that America has no tolerance for Christian people.  One day, when experience has taught us better, we may realize that these are easy times we are living in today.  One day, when times are really hard.  When our faith must stand alone, against brothers and sisters, friends, and country.

Things may turn around.  God, in His providence, may bring an extraordinary revival to this country.  He may completely change the trajectory of this great nation.

But, what if He doesn’t?  What if, in His providence, He brings revival through great trial and persecution of our sons and daughters?  Do we have a faith that is founded on complete trust and belief in God, or part trust and belief in God and part trust and belief in the United States of America?

Governments rise and fall. Rules change.  But, God never changes.  He was the same before He ever lifted a finger to create humanity.  The mighty God we see in Scripture, the one who created this entire universe with a few words tossed out into nothingness, He is greater than any country, any government, any man-made institution.

As Americans we have lived out a comfortable faith.  If things get uncomfortable, even frightening, we should not lose heart.  Our God is just as big, just as in control, and just as sufficient as He ever was.  Trust in the Lord with all your heart.  Don’t lean on your government’s protection.  Or your own understanding.  He knows.  He is working.

God bless America.

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