Motherhood, She Wrote

Every single time I step out of the shower, my routine is the same. Towel dry, reach for the Jergen’s. I’ve been using Jergen’s since I was old enough to buy my own lotion. Even in our poorer days, I stood in the aisles of Target debating with myself how on earth I could justify spending the money on a bottle of lotion for myself. Then one day I discovered that Target was producing a generic, with the same scent.

Cherry Almond.

I walked to my car, shopping bag in hand. I had my lotion, and zero guilt. It was marvelous.

It wasn’t until about a year ago that I allowed myself to go back to the name brand, and while 4 little mouths to feed and clothe and provide medical insurance for, have made sure we’re not wondering what to do with all this extra money at the end of every month, we’re doing a bit better than our days of searching for change to put gas in the car.

As a result of my daily shower habit, and consequently my Jergen’s habit, I time travel every single day. Within seconds of pumping a bit of the white cream into my hands, I am back in my grandmother’s house and we’re having a sleepover. I’m in the trundle bed, and she’s just come into the room, hair still wet and her green robe zipped all the way up. She sits on the bed, removes her glasses, and reaches for the Jergen’s on the bottom shelf of her nightstand. I settle in while she applies it.

I’m comfortable. I’m safe. I’m happy.

Then we proceed to talk the night away in the dark room with the light of the glow-in-the-dark stars all over the ceiling shining down on us.

I ask about heaven and hell. I tell her about my friends, the boys I pretend to be annoyed with. She tells me about growing up with crazy fun brothers and an independent mother. Her voice softens when she talks about her “Daddy”. We talk about books and movies and American Girl dolls. I never talk about my parents. I rarely talk about my siblings. For a week every summer, I’m just me.

And my grandma is my biggest fan.

Every minute of my summer stays sunk deep into my marrow and even today, they are some of my clearest memories. These days, there are no week long summer stays, though how I wish I could pack my blue vinyl duffle with the bright pink hearts all over it and hope over to her guestroom. I’d make brownies every night after dinner.

Instead, there are weekly phone calls. I still tell her all about the boys in my life, granted they are the precious little guys in my own home and not the ones on the playground or hanging around my locker anymore. Every now and then, I still ask her questions of heaven and hell. And once in a great while she surprises me and asks me one of her own. Sometimes I talk about my parents. Sometimes I mention my siblings and the lives they are leading. Because I’m all grown up now, and all those things have changed and not changed. We talk about my grandpa, about what faithfulness looks like at their season. I hear “walk humbly” whispered into my heart. As she talks and lives and walks, I think how lost I’ll be someday without her guidance. And then I shoo the thoughts away because I am rich. I have her now and I’ve had her for so long.

And that is wealth beyond measure, for a granddaughter to be so near the heartbeat of such a woman.

She’s slip on shoes striding around her garden. She’s handmade clothes for my favorite dolls. She’s a vase of roses on the piano, the first thing I notice as I walk down the aisle toward my groom on my wedding day. She’s lunches out and dinners in. She’s Pert Plus shampoo samples set out for my visit. She’s choked up tears as she surveys her family, and speaks of her God. She’s trips to the book shop and shopping sprees at the Dollar Store. She’s a power mower and bonfire builder. She’s talent shows and singing off key. She’s sleepovers and late nights. She’s hard choices and morning readings from the King James. She’s Jergen’s lotion and deep security.

And I’m her biggest fan.

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I keep seeing the white flag raised high.

I keep hearing the resignation in so many maternal voices.

Giving up seems to be all the rage right now.

I believe in transparency. I believe in sharing our struggles, in admitting that we don’t have it all together. I love the freedom that comes with saying to one another, “You too? Me too!” Despite the media-orchestrated Mommy-Wars and illusive standards of a Pinterest life (which is a life in which people are always pinning YOUR stuff), I feel fortunate to live in a time when women are reaching out and admitting how far we all fall short of being the kind of parents we thought we’d be.

But.

When I hear someone say, “I’m done trying. I’m only human.” I don’t hear transparency, I hear defeat.

And I understand. There are so many times I fall into bed, utterly defeated.

I know what it’s like to feel overwhelmed as a mom. I know about tired seasons. I know about looking back over a 6-month or 12-month period and realizing it’s all a blur. I know about difficult periods of discipline hell and feeling like a failure. I know about hard diagnoses and about exhausting schedules. I know about fast food and laundry all over the floor. I know there are  times when victory is in getting out of bed and feeding them and just surviving to bed time.

I’ve watched as other mothers do hard things. Raise children who choose to run far away from the home and ideals they were raised in. Bury a child. Tell a child that no, there isn’t enough money for their dream college. Love and commit to children who bring a history of trauma and hurt into their new family.

However. Defeat can’t be the answer.And so, I’d like to challenge a dangerous train of thought I keep bumping into. It goes something like this.

“Parenting is much harder than I thought it would be. I’m not like all those other mothers who have it together. I’m too tired and my kids are especially hard. I’m just going to be honest about that and let Jesus take care of the rest. He likes me messy and frustrated. We’re all human after all, me and my kids.”

And the thing is, there is something really wonderful about starting down that path. Recognizing our own failings and refusing to beat ourselves up over it. I love that.

But, here’s what I’d like to say. If you are a mother, you are called to be a mother. It did not just happen to you. Even if your journey to this place of little children wasn’t the storybook version, even if it’s the last thing you thought you wanted, even if it has been filled with the unexpected and very difficult.

You are called to mother your children.

And when you have a calling, you can choose to walk in it or not. You can choose to experience the abundant blessings of that calling, or you can choose to sidestep them by believing that motherhood is just an ordinary part of life.

It’s not. It’s an absolute miracle.

Just like any other calling, it is an imperfect road because we are an imperfect people. But we must never give in. When we search scripture, over and over and over again, children are called blessings, not liabilities or interruptions. Parents are exhorted to raise them, love them, teach them, keep them close.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it until the day Jesus calls me home, but nothing has changed me like my children. I really don’t believe there is a force on earth that is equal to the love of a parent to a child, and that force, it moves things.

God knew exactly what He was doing when He created that love and bond. He knew it would be our best chance to want to change, to confront all the ugly self-centered thoughts and actions of our lives on behalf of our children.

Here is the good news. It doesn’t have to be pretty. Excellence doesn’t mean that we keep our cool all the time or that we are never frustrated again. It doesn’t mean our days flow smoothly or our children never sass us again. I really believe the in motherhood, and in most things, excellence means we posture ourselves to be open to whatever God may require of us. It means we choose in all the little things to whisper our thanks, whisper our need. It means we keep coming back to the Source of our strength.

Excellence in the case of motherhood looks like reliance on God in a million ways at a million different times. It’s that extra breath you take before telling your child again that they must stop whining. It’s setting down a dishrag to read a book. It’s giving up a bit of your quiet time to hold that little one who just needs a bit of attention.

It’s also facing the problem of exhaustion head on. It’s handing the baby to Daddy. It’s asking for help. It’s taking a walk, drinking more water, going to bed a little earlier.When we care for our bodies, we are taking the burden of our overwhelming exhaustion off our kids. When we feel better, we are able to be better.

We can’t give up. We must accept our limitations as facts and trust that God will use those very weaknesses to make us into new people. He intends to change us. And unfortunately, it turns out we humans rarely change unless we have to.

We have to.

For our babies, yes.

But also because that’s what was designed for us. God’s working it out folks, this sanctification process is lifelong and it is vitally important. He intends to conform us to the image of His Son, and we’re crazy if we think that will come easily.

Don’t raise the white flag, mothers. Don’t believe the lie that it shouldn’t be this hard. It’s this hard because we are deeply loved by God. It’s this hard because when we choose to embrace the difficulty, the hard times themselves will be the refiners fire that transforms us into women who truly love God and love others. Above all else, above  ourselves.

Our children need that kind of mother. Yes, let’s talk about discipline and screen time and healthy diets, but above all, let’s push in. Let’s over and over again choose the hard things. Let us whisper to Jesus that we know He is working, that we need His help to trust Him. That we are failing.

And just watch and see.

It is a rocky and tiring path He has chosen for us, and more often than not, it brings us to the end of ourselves. But, because He is so good and because He loves to see us smile, it is peppered with joy. The laughter of our kiddos, the hilarious things they say, silky fine baby hair. That first whispered I love you. The snuggles in Mommy and Daddy’s Bed.

They are gifts.  And they help us to put one foot in front of the other.

Our babies need us, moms. They need us in ways the culture around us doesn’t even see. They need to see Jesus. They need to see our love story with Him unfold before their very eyes.

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I’m curious, and to be honest, a little frustrated.

You see, my sons are very funny. One in particular has a quirky little way of looking at life, and a commentary that just won’t quit. And like so many mothers before me, I abuse use facebook to record such funny little comments.

For instance, last night the rain began as we were driving home. After pulling into the driveway, Cole jumped out of the van, ran to the middle of the lawn, turned his face upward, and exclaimed,

“Man! These cats and dogs are falling all over me!”

I don’t care who you are, that’s funny.

And the little like button on facebook reflected that I wasn’t the only one who thought so. These recorded moments with my sons are appreciated by many. I believe people respond because I post things that really are truly funny, and not, for instance potty training progress. I try to be respectful of the fact that very few people will actually care that Jonah is wearing big boy undies and only had 23 accidents. In other words, i give the people what they want. Or I try to anyway. It’s a fine line and sometimes my motherly pride gets the best of me, but I really do try.

But sometimes I post other things. Adoption progress things. Links to blogs that make me think or touch my heart. And sometimes I post hard things. Sometimes I share something that asks a question or challenges the assumptions we hold about what this life in Christ really is supposed to look like.

Last night I posted a referral picture of a little girl from Ethiopia that the infamous Jen Hatmaker shared on her facebook page. She included some comments in which she shared about how she and her beautiful adopted daughter spent the evening talking about her daughter’s “first family” and grieving together a bit. It was personal, lovely, and heartbreaking. And the picture…. oh, the picture. You have never seen such sad eyes. It’s a picture people need to see.

And yet the number of “likes” were a fraction of what the funny little cats and dogs comment had received. (Sigh)

And I keep wondering, what is it going to take?

When will others understand that these children without parents or families are every bit as precious and wonderful as my own hilarious boys?

I am so grateful that my boys are growing up in a community that loves them and appreciates them. It is as it should be for every single child.

But, to be honest I am angry that we who love Christ are so slow to respond to the real need of these children. Yes, they need food. Yes, they need medical care. Yes, they need education. And for some, those are the very best ways to help them. BUT. There are many, many, many who need families. They need parents.

If you are a parent, imagine your child ripped from your home for whatever reason. Then imagine them growing up without a place to belong, without a mama or daddy who comes running when they’re feverish or have a bad dream. Imagine them never being told they are loved no matter what. Imagine them scared, alone, and grieving. And somehow, please understand that your child, safe in your home, is no more important or deserving than the child who is actually living that reality.

Brandon and I are often told we are crazy. After all, we have four little boys 6 and under and now we’re adopting a 5th child from a hard place. And we’re adopting an “older” child, so we’re really crazy. Usually, people comment on our sanity and then smile and say something like, “but you’re crazy in the best way”. I usually just smile.

What I’d like to say, and I guess I’ll just say it here is,

What on earth is crazy about loving a child?

What on earth is crazy about giving a child a home?

What on earth is crazy about giving a child a place to belong?

What on earth is crazy about sharing our table, our resources, our privileges with a child who has none?

Why does hard mean crazy?

And then I want to say,

We are no different than you.

We are not better parents.

We are not more patient.

We are not more giving.

We are not less tired.

We are not more called, more equipped, more spiritual.

Please don’t call me crazy so that you can find a reason to ignore a child who needs someone just like you to love them.

I realize that my words are strong. This is the part of the post that I would normally say something about how not everyone is called to adopt, how there are many ways to care for the orphan, how you need to pray and seek God. I believe all those things. But the truth is, I would only say those things right now to spare your feelings and your opinion of me.

And today, I care more about the future, or lack thereof, of hundreds of thousands of children. Today, I choose them. It’s a journey and I get that. It took us nearly ten years of marriage to actually do something about what we knew to be true. Thank God that He is patient and kind and is willing to let us step into this journey even still.

Please stop looking away. Please stop believing that you don’t have what it takes. Please remember that the love of a family can change everything.

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