Born a Mother

I was trying to remember my first Mother’s Day as a mother last year. Abigail would have been two months old, still young enough to count her age in weeks. Which means I would have been a two-month-old mother, still young enough to feel my weakness and joy like a pulse. I was undoubtedly wearing a milk-stained shirt, because everything I wore for months had to submit itself to the ritual of breastfeeding. I was probably still lining my mesh underwear with maxi-pads the size of a small country, because the wounds of childbirth had not quite turned into scars. The thing I am most sure of is that I was drunk on love and filled with an indescribable joy. 

I never pictured myself as a mother. When friends would talk about their dreams of pushing a little one around in a stroller, finger-painting with toddlers, dressing newborns in impossibly tiny outfits, I would smile friendly enough but remain silent. Those were not dreams in which I could see myself. I thought of children the way I think about climbing Everest or exploring the Arctic: fine for someone else, someone more adventurous, but not really for me. Maybe someday. 

A friend writes, “Giving birth is about more than just birthing a baby - you’re also birthing a mother.” When Abigail was born, I was born as her mother. Suddenly I could see it - the walks, the finger-painting, the impossibly tiny shoes. I could see my place in these dreams, see how I could instantly fall in love with her smell, her eyelashes, her perfect cheeks. I could see myself dancing with her to silly songs, laughing at her jokes, and framing her artwork. She was perfect, this perfect little girl with her own heart and voice and soul. I couldn’t believe she could have possibly come from me. And yet there we were, in the same world, her little body cradled in my weak arms. 

I do the work of motherhood imperfectly - I’ve been overwhelmed and frustrated and impatient, along with a thousand other sins. And yet I feel the Lord drawing nearer to me even in these moments, and it’s his nearness that is my good (Psalm 73.) I feel at home as a mother in a way I’ve never quite felt at home doing anything else in my life. 

There are times I wish I could go back and encourage her. Not the woman I was last year wearing a milk-stained shirt and maxi pad from the still-bleeding wound of childbirth, but the woman I was before ever giving birth to myself as a mother. I would tell her not to be so afraid. I would tell her there is more joy in this season than can even be explained. I would want her to hear the sound of Abigail’s laugh, the shape of her smile, the roundness of her tummy. Even before her first Mother’s Day, she would know she loves mothering.

Photo: Jenna L. Richman Photography

Today I am Held Up

I can remember March 4, 2018 - the day my Uncle Lee passed away suddenly - with shocking clarity. I can’t remember what I did two days ago but I can remember that day two years ago with such detail it would stun you. I remember the weather: unseasonably warm, bright sunshine, but I still wore a coat because of the wind. I remember spending an hour in prayer that morning and feeling God’s presence in a way I hadn’t in months. I remember walking to the park to play tennis with some borrowed racquets, my phone buzzing in the coat of my pocket, my mom’s voice asking where I was and telling me to come to the hospital. I remember it taking too long to get back to my car. I remember thinking my husband was driving too slow on the interstate. I remember John Mark McMillan was playing so low I couldn’t determine the song but it must be him because his CD was stuck in the player. I remember trying to pray but only managing short words like “please” and “no.” I remember meeting my cousin in the Walmart parking lot and driving her with us to the hospital. I remember the parking spot, the color of the tiles on the floor, the exact words: "massive heart attack," "everything we could," "do you want to see him?" 

Our pastor told us grief never ends, the waves just get smaller and farther apart. Most days I don’t have any idea what will trigger a wave, but today is different. I know March 4 on the calendar, and I know to brace myself, to give myself grace when grief comes out sideways and I’m irritated over nothing, to eat Oreos when I want to eat Oreos, to keep busy.

Last year on March 4 the day felt mysteriously peaceful and I thought it was some fluke. Today feels mysteriously peaceful as well - maybe because I'm bracing myself, maybe because of the Oreos. I think it's more than that though. I feel held up.

My dear friend Maggie has texted me on every "big" day to tell me she's praying for me. I FaceTimed Emily this morning and we talked about doing things that remind us of him: sitting in Starbucks on the internet, checking the internet speed, and eating m&ms. My Mom texted me and we have lunch planned together later. My mother-in-law texted me to say she's praying. There's nothing I could have done to deserve such kindness, but these things are keeping me afloat today. The waves are coming, as I knew they would, but they're smaller and farther apart, and I'm being buoyed above them by the prayers and love of family and friends.

Divine Reading (Lectio Divina)

Originally published at Horizons Resources

For most of my life I have viewed a wide reading of Scripture as the best way to engage the Word of God. Whether that view was intentionally held or not, I failed many Bible-In-A-Year plans trying to attain the extra holiness in store for people who take in a lot of the Bible every day. 

Around this time last year, I was introduced to a new-to-me way of engaging with Scripture called Lectio Divina. Latin for “divine reading,” Lectio Divina is a series of movements to help the reader engage a passage in a deeper way. This is a practice of slow, meaningful reading and re-reading of a very small portion of Scripture, usually only a few verses. It’s asking questions and silently listening for their answers. It’s allowing the Spirit time and space to move in our hearts. 

While there’s certainly nothing wrong with reading large passages of Scripture each day or reading the Bible in a year (many people I love dearly, including my husband, do this and really benefit from it), Lectio Divina is something I’ve found to be another tool in my arsenal, another spiritual exercise if you will, something to be used to increase my enjoyment of God as I read his word. In the same way our bodies become stronger as we exercise them in different ways, so can our hearts and minds as we engage scripture in different ways. 

Building muscles - both physical and spiritual - is complementary in ways we often aren’t even aware of. For example, a person who does only bicep curls will soon plateau unless he also exercises other parts of the body. By adding other exercises to his routine - planks, squats, cardio - he can begin to improve again. The strength gained in his core by doing planks can help him lift heavier weights with his arms because his body is more stabilized. 

The same is true of our spiritual muscles. After practicing Lectio Divina, my day-to-day readings of larger passages of scripture take on a new depth, and I’m more apt to take note of words or phrases the Holy Spirit brings to mind as I’m reading. In the same way, reading more broadly gives my practice of Lectio Divina a fuller shape as I understand the context of a passage better and how that passage fits into the larger narrative of the Bible as a whole. Each spiritual “exercise” benefits the other. (Continue reading at horizonsresources.net…)