Throughout the week I wonder what the LORD would have me to write. In an attempt to convey a message from my heart, I have the usual distactions. Distractions, buzzers, timers, calls, the dryer’s beep-beep-beep, the knocking at the back door… distractions. And then I thought: distractions? No: life. Life is what’s happening when we’re waiting and planning for something else to happen. And then I think on this further and wonder: is this the story of my motherhood experience? Has it all happened while I was waiting for something else to happen? Have the days passed by while I was looking for a brighter tomorrow or a better way of doing things? While hurry-scurrying around, gathering, sorting, washing, folding, packing… suddenly the time comes.
Suddenly the time-clock runs out and this game is over or the hour comes for the leaving… This is quintessential motherhood.
Years ago, I came inside from the chilly porch where I hugged one of our sons and waved him good-bye-for-now as he drove away. The darkness was giving way to light with the early morning sun casting a pink glow on the snow, tears flooded my eyes and instantly, all the compelling rush was completely forgotten in the haze of the exhaust and the taillights slowly dimming in the distance. I stood there in the cold-still waving… the asl sign for i-love-you… and found myself wondering—questioning—what significant thing had I contributed to that remarkable boy’s life? Was there anything noteworthy? All at once I thought of many things I’d forgotten to remember—things I suddenly realized I meant to say. Memories instantly flooded my mind — sort of like those endearing slideshows you see at weddings — the emotionally gripping photos that chronicle lives and bring tears and laughter simultaneously one frame after another.
Part of the calling of motherhood is that there will be suffering. There will be days of joy and and days of sorrow. Sort of that paradoxical truth that in every adversity there is triumph and in every joy there is an inextricable mix of delight and sorrow. The sorrow part is the part we didn’t read in the fine print. The sorrow part is one of the consequences of endearment — one of the consequences I didn’t perhaps expect when I first received the confirmation call from the doctor’s office or when we first saw the indicator lines in the home-pregnancy test kit. No, in those days, we had no idea what lay ahead, what tears we’d shed or how many sleepless nights we’d spend waiting and walking. Waiting for a child to return home or walking a crying baby from one end of the living room to the other: round and round.
No, in the early days, we had no idea what lay in store a few years down the road. We had no grasp of where those first baby-steps would take those feet. We had no concept that snow-tires would eventually replace those training wheels. Even now, I probably have no real grasp of what the consequences of motherhood are. Just as I can’t fathom the exhilaration of tremendous joy, I can’t fathom the plummeting sorrow—both are those inexplicable consequences of endearment and motherhood.
I’ve often said I wasn’t prepared for these years—the gripping anguish of regret and disappointment, the overwhelming joy proud moments bring and the unstoppable ticking of the clock and the turning of the calendar pages. It seems new calendars are purchased more frequently now. But in reality, nothing and everything prepared me for these days. The LORD has been with me, guiding, abiding and upholding me —preparing me for each of the next days He’s brought. The preparation has been in the living. Bidding farewell to passing seasons and ushering in new ones prepares us for these goodbyes.
It’s quintessential motherhood: fully experiencing of all the seasons over and over. Experience, history… photographs and memories all prepare us for these goodbyes. As I look out at the morning glow on the snow… and then at the leafless, frost covered branches of my weeping willow tree, there’s sort of a melancholy hopeful looking forward to what this day will bring and how I’ll one day look back on this day.
I smile as I realize that with every good bye… there’s a welcome home. In the end, the true joy is looking to the ultimate welcome home.
May the LORD bless you and bless you in your home today.
The other day I was browsing the aisles of a local thrift shop — not that I need another thing, but since many of our things are in a storage unit, on more than one occasion recently, I’ve needed to pick up an item or two. This time, of all things, I needed a cake pan. I didn’t find what I needed, but the trip was more than edifying.
The days seem long but the years are quickly passing. As I typed that, I recalled saying something similar in the early years of motherhood: the days are long and the weeks fly by. 
I’ve been mulling over the thought of seasons ending in various stages of bloom. It was below freezing through the night and this morning and as I look out the windows of my warm home, I see all around, summer is falling to the ground. The trees are losing their leaves, many fewer on the trees today than yesterday… more all over the lawn and field. The roses, hydrangeas and other flowering plants are losing their beauty, ending in various stages of bloom.
Much that perplexes us in our Christian experience is but the answer to our prayers. We pray for patience, and our Father sends those who tax us to the utmost; for “tribulation worketh patience.”
[cp_dropcaps]T[/cp_dropcaps]he topic I feel led to share tonight transcends cultures, language and socio-economic boundaries or barriers. When a child wanders out of the way, it doesn’t matter what you’ve got, what you know or what you don’t. It doesn’t matter what you’ve planned or what you hoped would happen. It doesn’t matter where you live or where you’ve been, when a child wanders out of the way, it is a heaviness only a mother or dad of a wayward child knows. It’s a very very lonely road sometimes. It’s a very isolating road and some days the hill is too tough and too steep to climb. And sometimes, it seems as though the road, with all its twists and turns and deep ditches and dark valleys, will never end and yet goes nowhere. This is the road of the wayward child.
Resolve. Quite a number of times recently I’ve longed for reclaiming former resolve. Sort of the embracing of the old paths — things that became such high priorities in former days. So now, I humbly say, experiences in recent years have really knocked me down and drained my resolve. Sinking in worthlessness jolted my senses and made me realize resolve had slipped away. Wait! Where’d it go? Where did the eagerness go?
[cp_quote style=”quote_left_dark”]Two births — the birth of a mother, the birth of a child.[/cp_quote]Every time I assist a birth I watch and watch and watch for not one, but two miraculous births — first the birth of a mother, that powerful time of dying to herself with a burst of unparalleled bravery and resolve to give every ounce of energy, hope, and strength to that little life in her pain racked body…and then, of course, the emergence of that little baby — that life that’s been at the center of all the hopes, all the tears, all the anticipation, and of all the pain.
I just read a blog post written by a young mama — a thirty something year old mama. She wrote about 