Impossible Love

motheres-impossible-love-louise-bourgeois-and-tracey-eminA mothers love is impossible. You learn an entirely new dimension to love when you become one.

Each time a baby is born so is love. So is a mom.

Each child has a different mom, because each child is unique and requires it.

So all those articles for “first time” moms are kind of crap….unless you read them with reverence for each consecutive child (or my personal preference, not at all.)

The good moms spend our entire lives, our very existence and all the moments in between simply being mom, and trying to figure out how to be the best mom our child needs.

We err on the side of love, but no matter what they get to grow up.

And some babes yell loud, and early, and late and always. And some prefer silent rebellion. And some mess up early and walk gentle and stubborn, moving mountains in supposed solitude.

And yet, some feel deeply and let anger penetrate and some crave love to the point of idiocy.

And some babes are still little and outright defiant and give literal smacking kisses.

Being a mom is an impossible blessing, they grow up, they mess up, they wear you down.

But if you’ve done it right they have learned…err on the side of love.

So sleep peaceful, weary mommas, knowing you’ve done your all and it was the best and it was good enough.

And if all they learn is love, that’s good enough. It will guide them back. Because a heart ready for love is a heart ready for Christ.

-J

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Rejoice, Be Glad

“and the greatest gift we can give our God is to let his love make us happy”- Ann Voskamp

 

Before becoming a mom I wouldn’t have fully understood this. But now, three kids later, it rings true and hard.

 

I so desperately want my love to be enough. I want them smothered and adored and laughing in the bliss of it all.

 

I want them fearless and bold and secure and glad to be themselves in this world, because my love has brought them there.

 

But my love will never be enough. Even if I didn’t fail daily, even if I wasn’t hanging on the end trying to regrip most days. I couldn’t; I cant fill them up enough.

 

There is a cross shaped hole, a longing in their tiny souls for a perfect love I can’t fill.

 

And as a mom that is hard. I want to fill it up. As a human, a sigh is let out and the pressure lifted, I can’t be enough, but I know the one who can.

 

This Christmas there is so much hustle and bustle and trying to get situated and in our new groove. Growing pains are running rampant and I feel guilty everyday.

 

I am not enough for them.

 

And that is ok. Moms that is ok.

 

rejoiceJust lean on the One who is. Talk to the One who can fill them, talk about the One who came down small as them and will put the broken pieces of them and this world back together again. He will put the pieces of me right where he designed them to be, in His hand. He created me to be their mom, I am enough for this moment, but not for their hearts. Only His love can truly fulfill their needs

 

And the greatest gift I can give back to Him is to let His love, His perfect love fill my holes, fill my guilt, wrap me up and make me glad.

 

Rejoice, Hosanna, Glory to the King of Kings.

 

He is mine and I am glad.

-J

And it’ll all be okay

Everyday, at least once a day, I feel like crying. Not little tears of joy or pain. I feel like sitting on the floor and sobbing uncontrollably for reasons that do not exist except in my mind, and for reasons life is so very complicated. 

Literature, err hospital pamphlets, call it “baby blues”…and suggest getting help if it lasts longer than a few weeks. Apparently a few weeks of this is a normal thing. 

I remember feeling very similar after Bug was born. I was told introducing number three into the mix is way easier than number two – that I already know how to divide my time. It’s not simpler for me. 

k1It’s equally as hard and the guilt rides me, despite it being unfounded. I want to cuddle them all, all at once. I want to hold them close and whisper I love you’s until it’s all they know to say. (Super productive parenting I know). 

My heart is overflowing and my emotions are the icing on top. Beck is a champ; hands down an easier baby and a better breast feeder. But it hurts still and the emotional surges with it send me wheeling.

But he’s perfect, and we’re all obsessed. It wasn’t our plan to have a family of five. But God knew better and I’m so glad. I can’t imagine my world without any one of my babies in it! 

But I still want to cry. A lot. And so I’m writing this random blog to say that’s ok. 

And it doesn’t take away the love. Or the frustration of a healing body. Or the fact my kids don’t understand why I cant run around yet though I all I want to do is that. Or why I can’t carry my three year old up or downstairs yet. It breaks my mama heart even if next week I know we’ll be back closer to normal. 

It’s all a process. And it’s all ok. And grace is extended and absorbed. And His plan is infinitely better than mine. 

Gravity and Star Shine

I talk to Jesus when my babies sleep. When they’re awake too, but those prayers sound different…more like mama strength. I talk to them about Jesus when they’re waking up.

I rub sleepy heads and tell them how handsome and beautiful and awesome and passionate they are.

I tell them they were specifically designed, the entire universe shifted because Jesus loves them. Their little powerhouse spirits. I tell them they can change the world again by loving and choosing Jesus.

What a team they will make. My babes and God. My mind spins just thinking about it, the possibilities God has written out.

And I breathe a little easier, grateful to be on this journey. Grateful I’m honored with strong willed cubs.

i-talk-to-jesusAnd I run my fingers through their crazy and different hair and will continue to whisper all things good.

Difficult to raise, but oh so good.

Love once changed the world, and now it has changed mine, thrice over.

And I’m anxious and impatient to whisper sweet nothings to number three. And grateful, yet in pain, over his already distinctly stubborn self.

And I’m convinced, despite it all, love will continue to better the world, and my cubs will be part of the gravity and part of the star shine.

  • J

 

In the Boring Stuff

“Motherhood is the hardest assignment I’ve ever been given and the most extraordinary life that exists.” Brooke McGothlin

 

extraordinary: very unusable or remarkable

 

exceptional, amazing, astonishing, astounding, stunning, incredible, unbelievable…

 

This journey I am on.

 

I find it highly interesting that the word best used to describe my life (motherhood) is extraordinary.

 

Extra + ordinary.

 

And so many of my days are so incredibly extra (super) ordinary, and mundane and repetitive.

 

So ordinary that if you blink you miss the magic, and another same day with the same shows has repeated itself.

 

It’s a work, a discipline in training the mind to see the magic. To see Christ in the dishes. To see the holy work in the laundry, and the kisses, and the spilled messes.

 

If you blink too long, you miss the EXTRAordinary parts –

 

The extra cuddles after long naps or crankies,

 

The extra help cleaning up,

 

The extra minutes of water play,

 

The extra I love yous, followed with extra puppy kisses.,

 

The extra warmth in your bed, only noticed by its absence,

 

The extra nudge to slow down and look down and notice the ordinary in a new lens,

 

The extra nudge to notice the flutterby (butterfly) on the flowers,

 

And the extra cake and snacks,

boring-stuff

And syrup forever being associated with chubby baby Nici hands.

 

These are the moments of an extraordinary life. They aren’t flashy and well groomed and held in high esteem by society. They are what make a life worth living though.

 

And they are what make memories, the big things come and go; we are left with the day to day. The days make a life.

  • J

 

A Mean Mac and Cheese

I just finished getting ready for the day, I water washed my face and put on relatively clean clothes.

In the background the tv is on and I start hearing, “my mom…my mom… my mom…”

 

And at first I smile, moms are super heros and that was the premise of the commercial, or so I thought.

 

As I kept listening not a single thing had anything to do with being a mom, and everything to do with a highly successful career. It was an ode to the working woman, not mother.

 

I started thinking about what it means to be a mom. My mom never missed a big event, be it a game a dance a competition a practice. Heck, my mom never missed an emotion. My mom is the reigning queen of “the jessi game” (a game where I lay in bed next to her and she tells me all the things she loves about me…others have played, she has always won, and no it’s not conceit. Its feeding a weary daughter’s soul, sometimes we all need to hear reasons we are treasured). My mom has the softest skin and best smelling sock drawer. My mom knows all my favorite everythings and indulges my funfetti fetish whenever she can. And these things matter too.

 

My mom can help me on a moments notice. She has no higher obligation than me and my siblings.

 

And I pray my accolades echo hers. We may not be an aerodynamic wizard, but we can make paper airplanes soar. We may not know squat about engineering, but we can run on 2 hours of sleep and coffee.We may not be a biologist, but we can find the worm hideouts like it’s nobody’s business. And we know the looks of distress with a shift of a foot, and how hugs heal and sometimes we need to throw a fit and have ice cream before dinner.

 

my-momI set my degree aside and chose this career, this unglorified path of mom. And GE got it wrong, it’s not the brains or the degree or the outside accomplishments that make women superheros. It’s the small moments and the consistent presence in the good and the distress.

 

Society says we can have it all, be it all. Pure logistics says that isn’t so. You cant be the best at everything, something has to give.

 

But I can change the world by being a mom. Stay at home moms get a bad rap. We are “blessed,” “we don’t know how lucky we are…”

 

I respectfully say that’s crap. We sacrifice, we made choices to make this life work. And its just as hard and just as rewarding and just as important as the 9-5 mom. And sometimes superheros don’t have time for showers and pant suits. Sometimes superheros just make a mean mac n cheese.

-J

Plant the Seeds – It’s all I can do

Timothy’s dad was Greek. This seems like a small nuance of history; yet I find it utterly fascinating and encouraging.

 

Timothy’s dad being Greek means he was not a follower of Christ; he was not a believer.

 

And yet, based on his grandmothers (Lois) and his moms (Eunice) faith he grew up to be a man of great faith (2 timothy 1:5)

 

He walked along side Paul and spread the good news of Christ; he wrote two books of the Bible! And his dad was not a believer.

 

I worry about my Chris, and how his lack of faith will affect our children. He is good man, who loves us all, but he doesn’t know the unending love of Christ and is very factual and self reliant. Vulnerability and love that passes understanding do not come easily to him.

 

Sometimes I worry about silly things, when I should just go to the Word.

 

It is clearly written, after all, God is in me, and so, in my home. Thus, he surrounds Chris and my children daily (whether they like it or not, whether they believe it or not.) We are flooded by His presence through my faith – that is powerful.

 

I also believe faith can move mountains and grow mustard trees, and can defy logical thinking. God is fighting for them through me.

 

Sometimes the weight of that falls heavy. Yet, when I turn to the Word I’m reminded the outcome isn’t mine to determine. I am but a messenger, a fishermen, a farmer, planting seeds.

 

When and where the seeds will take root and produce isn’t up to me, that’s up to my God. My job is much simpler. Plant the seeds in love and when the season is right, they will grow.

 

“He sleeps and rises night and day, and the seed sprouts and grows; he knows not how. The earth produces by itself, first the blade, then the ear, then the full grain in the ear.” Mark 4:27-28

 

After all, Timothy’s dad was greek.

– J