but seriously, Mary, did you know?

"...the time came for the baby to be born, and she gave birth to her firstborn..."  (Luke 2:6-7)

"the time came....and she gave birth..."

Are you kidding me? That's it. That's all you're gonna give me, God?

I guess that's how the Dad tells a birth story.

*****

I have so many questions regarding the details of this birth, my head could explode. I'm a mom; I love a good birth story. The past ten years of my life have been a continual stream of babies, and I never tire of hearing all the details of the glorious day. I want to know about the first contraction and the bickering between husband and wife about whether or not to call the doctor. I find great solidarity in hearing all the crazy things moms say and do when labor pain is all-consuming. I want to know all the details: what time you left for the hospital, how was the drive, and what time did you get there? Could you walk in or was there a wheelchair waiting? On a scale of 1-10, how was your pain level at this point? And please, please, please, tell me all about those first moments when you held your baby to your chest.

You can see why Luke's account is somewhat disappointing to me. Isn't he the doctor of the gospel writers? And all he's going to give me is "the time came for the baby to be born, and she gave birth." Grrrrr.

What about Joseph? What was he doing the whole time? Surely he was pretty freaked out.  After all, he was a first time dad coaching Mary through labor, and no doubt the watching eyes of horses and cows only added to the absurdity of it all. I wonder if they had a good sense of humor about it. Was there a moment during delivery that Mary made eye contact with a sheep and thought to herself, "You've got to be kidding me."

As I continue reading in Luke, I am left unsatisfied again by the lack of detail given to Jesus' childhood, and specifically Mary's unfathomable journey of raising the Son of God. Although she was given the heads up by the angel, Gabriel, I can't imagine their brief encounter prepared her for mothering the Savior of the world.

"You will be with child...He will be great..." (Luke 1:31-32)

But Mary, did you know that by "great," Gabriel meant perfect? A perfect baby, a perfect toddler, a perfect teenager. On the surface this sounds amazing, but how does a sinful mother go about teaching and training the great I AM, especially in a household of fully human siblings? I wonder about the guilt and frustration Mary must have felt when she kept falling short, time and time again, but her little guy kept getting it right. Every. Time.

"...and will be called the Son of the Most High." (Luke 1:32)

But Mary, did you know he will also be called worse - much, much worse? This title, Son of the Most High, will upset a lot of people, and that sweet little baby you're holding will grow to be rejected and hated. People will be talking about him behind his back, plotting ways to make him look like a fool. Plotting how to kill him. You'll have to really control those Mama Bear instincts. It seems you believed in his divinity with such ease, but that won't be the case for many. Your Jesus, the Son of the Most High, will infuriate the world for generations.

"The Lord God will give him the throne of his father David, and he will reign over the house of Jacob forever; his kingdom will never end." (Luke 1:32-33)

But Mary, did you know this isn't going to play out the way you think, the way you hope? You will not see this reign, this kingdom in your lifetime. You will see glimpses, but there will be no throne this time around. You will be confused, wondering when your Jesus will stop turning the other cheek and establish the justice and righteousness Isaiah foretold so many years ago.  Words like "of the increase of his government and peace there will be no end" (Isaiah 9:7) will baffle you because you will not see his government nor will peace reign. And just when you think it's time, just when you think your son is about to unleash his power and take his place as King, he will instead ask you, "Dear woman, why do you involve me? My time has not yet come." (John 2:4). I imagine that wasn’t the first time he had said that to you. Seriously Mary, from one mother to another, did you want to smack some sense into him? You must have at least rolled your eyes. 

After Jesus was born, you and Joseph brought him to the Temple to be presented to the Lord. Upon your arrival, Simeon, "a righteous and devout" man, took the baby in his arms, praising the Lord and declaring,

"'For my eyes have seen your salvation, which you have prepared  in the sight of all people,a light for revelation to the Gentile and for glory to you people Israel.'

The child's father and mother marveled at what was said about him.” (Luke 2:30-33)

Well, yeah. Obviously. Oh Mary, you must have been bursting with pride. My heart puffs up when someone says my baby is cute, but salvation? A light for revelation? I can't imagine.

But Mary, did you know Simeon's words would quickly take a turn for the worst.

"This child is destined to cause the falling and rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be spoken against, so that the thoughts of many hearts will be revealed. And a sword will pierce your own soul too." (Luke 2:34-35)

Oh Mary. Did you know?

How could you? How could you ever anticipate all that would unfold over the next 33 years?

For years the lack of detail in the Bible led me, perhaps falsely so, to conclude that your faith was unwavering. I never questioned your ability to be the mom to the Savior of World. I never wondered about the details of the birth itself, and I never imagined the frustration of raising a child who came to save the world, but kept wandering around with 12 lowly men instead. I never considered the absurdity of trusting your child to know best, and I never thought about the fear of watching Jesus’ destiny play out. 

But Mary, then I became a mom and learned the truth: no woman gets through motherhood without battling the uncertainties of her children's future. The most godly moms have prayed “Your will be done, Lord...but here are a few suggestions.” The most confident moms fear they are doing it all wrong, surely scaring their children for life. The most gentle moms are ready to body slam anyone who causes their child pain, and even the most faithful moms lie awake some nights wondering how it will all turn out. Will this little one be ok? Will the world be kind? Will the world see the greatness I see?

I've got to believe you weren't much different. But boy oh boy, do I have some questions for you.

Seriously Mary, did you know?

---

This essay was originally published by Mothers Always Write.

like an arrow

When I was a teenager, the pastor at my church preached a series about families. Each week he focused on the role of a different family member: husbands, wives, parents, children. The week he preached about parenthood I was only half listening. Parenting seemed a million years away when I was seventeen.

We turned our Bibles to Psalms 127, and in his fantastic British accent, the pastor proceeded to read verse 4: “Like arrows in the hands of a warrior are sons born in one’s youth.” I had never heard this verse and the imagery immediately caught my attention. My pastor stepped to the side of the podium and assumed the stance of a warrior. Pretending to lift a bow and arrow, he slowly pulled back his elbow and lowered his head as if lining up his target.

I was fascinated by this picture of parenthood as he went on to preach how a child is entrusted to parents for a limited time. From the beginning, a parent knows this arrow will be released into the world, and it is a parent’s responsibility to teach, train, aim, and ultimately release. As a teenager, this verse was both beautiful and unsettling.

I loved the idea that I was an arrow on the verge of being released and ready to take on the unknown. But I also loved home and was never thrilled with the idea of leaving. I got homesick every year at summer camp, and at age ten I announced I would not be going away to college. Instead, I’d stick near home and attend a local school a few miles down the road: Worsham College of Mortuary Science. It was years later when I found out what mortuary science meant that I changed that plan.  

Twelve years later and this image and verse stuck with me as I became a mom for the first time. In the weeks after Charlotte was born, I traced her tiny hand onto pink cardstock and wrote that verse on her little palm. That handprint is still tucked in the pages of my Bible. I will often refer to my children as my little arrows - a reminder they are not mine for keeps, but my privilege to teach, train, aim, and ultimately release. I have found that as a mom, this verse is still both beautiful and unsettling.

*****

About a year ago, I began making changes to update my blog. Because all things involving the world wide web take me four times longer than the average person, I have been moving at a snail’s pace. With this change, I retired my beloved 44 & Oxford, the original name for this space. But I wanted something more than the letters of my name in the new title; I wanted an arrow - that small reminder of the little arrows in my life.

I know my identity expands beyond the scope of motherhood, and the writing on this blog isn’t limited to the tales of mom life. But once I became a mom, everything else started being filtered through a different lens. Even when I’m not buckling car seats, making quesadillas, and pretending to enjoy dinosaurs, I still carry motherhood in every decision. Those little arrows are watching how I handle life. Marriage, friendships, hobbies, housework - they see it. Probably more than anyone. They are watching what I do in my free time and what passions I make time for.

I’ve talked with lots of moms who feel guilty for pursuing creative passions, and although I have a mountain of material to feel guilty about (insert long list of all the times I’ve completely lost my cool with those darlings), I don’t feel guilty for setting aside time for my own creativity. In fact, it is quite the opposite.

I want those arrows to see me make time for the people and things I love -  for family dinner, for girls’ nights out, and for flying across the country to see college friends. I want them to see me make time for the body of Christ and for the marginalized in our community. I want them to see me make time for Zumba and cooking and reading and dinner guests. And I certainly want them to see me make time to write - to sit, think, and put words to those thoughts - to take a gift God gave me and give it back to Him.

I’ve been writing all my life, but started a blog only three and half years ago. I’m glad I did. Sometimes people will ask me about my writing goals, specifically if I’m going to write a book. I know I’m part of a very goal-oriented generation, so my answer to this question is always met with confusion and pushback. Yes, I make writing goals - for example, in 2019 I wanted to update this blog. Check. I wanted to sign up for a writing workshop. Check. I wanted to get away for a weekend alone for a writing retreat. Half check. (It’s booked for THIS weekend!) But when it comes to long term goals - what’s next? Where do I see myself in five years? Ten years? I have only one, vague but lofty goal:

Keep writing.

In five years, ten years, thirty years - it is my hope that I kept going. I got up early those mornings I wanted to sleep another hour. I turned off that TV show I didn’t really care about. I sat in silence. I thought and wondered. I wrote really crummy first drafts. I learned something, and I made the second draft better. I started with a blank screen and turned it into something worth sharing. I wrote about stuff I didn’t really want to but knew I needed to.

And hopefully, my love for writing tethered to a dose of discipline will serve to aim my arrows toward their own passions. Sometimes the teaching, training, and aiming will need to come through conversations and explanations, but most of the time it will come from watching me.

And I hope they see me keep going.

So welcome to my new little corner of the internet. A place where I can keep writing.

I am forever grateful for those of you who keep reading.

the man in aldi saw my boob

I spent Sunday afternoon wandering the aisles of the grocery store with my six-week-old snuggled closely to my chest. It was pure bliss. While the older two darlings stayed around home with dad, I grabbed the opportunity to grocery shop with only one child in tow - the easy child. Strapped onto my chest and sound asleep, my son made roaming the four aisles of Aldi seem like a luxurious getaway. I scanned some new products, read a few labels, and even retraced my steps back to aisle one when I forgot hamburger buns. He slept peacefully the entire time, those chubby cheeks pressed into my chest as strangers oohed and ahhed. 

"I should do this every Sunday," I thought to myself.

Cue foreboding music.

The following week I decided to take him grocery shopping again after Sunday lunch. I grabbed my bags and the baby wrap as I hurried off, eager for another therapeutic getaway disguised as an errand.

That darling boy fell asleep during the five-minute car ride to Aldi. I slowly lifted him from his car seat and positioned him gently into the baby wrap. He let out a few baby grunts as he arched his back, but settled in quickly as the warm breeze hugged his chunky frame; he was asleep again by the time we reached the entrance. 

The air conditioning hit us hard as we entered the store. Maybe it was the transition inside or maybe the Lord just needed to keep my humble, but the moment we entered the store, he awoke with a cry. Before we even passed the nuts and dried fruit, he had worked himself into a wail. 

I knew this feeling. This was my third child, after all, and each one before him has stopped me with the What am I supposed to do? terror. The first time my daughter began wailing in the grocery store, I felt like all eyes were on me, watching and waiting to see my next move. I remember the panic. Do I abandon my full car? Just keep going? How do you hold an infant and push a shopping cart?

But today was different. Instead of paralyzing terror, I felt a calm confidence. I left my cart in the aisle and walked back outside. I strolled down the sidewalk, past Jo-Ann Fabrics and the Asian Market. The movement and warm air lulled him back to sleep, and I reentered Aldi, my abandoned cart waiting where I'd left it. Unfortunately, this same scene repeated itself two more time. 

Wail.

Abandon cart.

Stroll outside.

Fall asleep.

Resume shopping.

Repeat.

I couldn't continue this absurd sequence all afternoon. I weighted my options: go home or plow through with a screaming baby. I didn't like either of those options. I began wishing my children had taken a pacifier, but none of them did. They all preferred the boob. 

The boob. 

That's it. 

Yes.

The boob.

Head on over to Coffee + Crumbs to read the full essay.

P.S. Coffee + Crumbs is my most favorite place for all things motherhood and creativity. 

strong as a mother

About a year ago, I decided I wanted a mom shirt. You know the kind - gray, casual fit with a catchy mom motto, ready to be paired with cut-off jeans and white Converse. I don't know what prompted my desire for a mom shirt. Maybe it's part of my continuing quest to fully embrace my mom role. Maybe it's my way of telling the world to ignore the frazzled look on my face and just read my shirt because I really do love this mom gig.

My dear friend, Lindsay, who was expecting her first baby, flew into town to meet my newest little guy over Mother's Day weekend. I decided this was the perfect excuse to buy that mom shirt - one for her, one for me. Lindsay is definitely the kind of friend who would wear matching mom shirts with me. After hours on Etsy clicking through Mama Bear and #momlife shirts, I opted for one that proudly declared "Strong As A Mother."

I like the sentiment that mothers are strong, and therefore, I am strong - strong enough to handle motherhood.

I am strong.

I am capable.

I am a mother.

I can do hard things.

Except for all the times I can't.

*****

I had a phone call scheduled for 4:00, so I gathered the two older darlings and explained I would need privacy. I told them to play in the basement while I talked on the phone upstairs. Hindsight is 20/20, so now I know turning on Netflix would have been the wiser option. But I didn't. 

At 4:10 I ended my call early, tears burning the back of my eyes, anger consuming my body. My children did not stay in the basement during the call. Instead, they ran around the house screaming. They jumped on my back, chased me upstairs, and completely disregarded my request for privacy. They burst through a closed door and flung toys against a locked door. My death look, hand gestures, and body language were useless. I was livid. 

I don't remember everything I said to them as I stepped into the hallway, but I remember swallowing the screams that were shaking my body. Instead, I spoke slowly and quietly, with harsh statements and glaring eyes. 

"The way you just acted was disappointing and disgusting. I do not want to see you or hear from you until dad comes home. If you dare to come out of your room before he gets home, you will have no dinner, no playtime, no books. You will go to bed, and I will not see you until tomorrow."

These were not empty threats. I was prepared to follow through. I closed the door to their rooms and sat at the top of the stairs.

Strong as a mother? I didn't feel so strong in that moment. 

And then it happened. 

My five-year-old daughter said - no - screamed, "I hate you!" There were a bunch of other words, too. Something about not being fair and wanting to get out of this house. She accused her brother of lying and apparently she wants a new family. Her frustration and anger flooded down the hallway as I sat at the top of the stairs, unsure of my next move.

My mind knew the truth, but my heart squeezed a steady stream of tears down my face. I knew she didn't hate me. I knew she would want to come with me in an hour to run errands. I knew she would cuddle with me that night to read Fancy Nancy, and she would crawl into my bed the next morning at 7:15. I knew she didn't like being sent to her room until dinner and her five-year-old emotions have a limited ability to express frustration. My mind knew, but her words still felt awful. 

Part of being a mom is taking the heat of emotions our children cannot express. They try out words and phrases to release those intense feelings, and we are left to absorb the heavy blow. She was frustrated with the situation, with the consequence, and she didn't know what to say or do. So she started yelling, probably unsure what would come out next. She was going for dramatic, extreme, anything to get my attention. 

Part of being a kid is taking the heat of emotions moms cannot express. We try out words and phrases to release those intense feelings, and our children are left to absorb the heavy blow. I was frustrated with the situation, with dishing out an extreme consequence, and I didn't know what to say or do. So I started talking, unsure what would would come out next. I was going for dramatic, extreme, anything to get her attention. 

This day, these 15 minutes, are engraved in my memory. I can close my eyes and feel the anger and pain, immediately followed by guilt and shame. My words, her words, they cannot be undone. 

Strong as a mother? I didn't feel so strong in that moment. 

*****

I want to be strong; I want to be capable. I want to gracefully handle busy days and crabby children. Mostly, I want to be strong enough to control my emotions, quiet my anger, and give a gentle answer when a harsh one is bubbling. 

But I keep messing up. 

It is so easy to get sucked into a downward spiral when I get angry. A wave of condemnation knocks my over, and before I can even regain my footing, my patience runs out again, and I am hit with more guilt. Recently, I have found myself believing the lie that I cannot change, the lie that anger is just a part of motherhood. 

Never before has the gospel of God's grace been more real to me than in my life as a mom. Sin is constantly surfacing, and I am reminded on a daily basis of my inability to do this job well. I might be able to fake it to the world, but I cannot fake it in front of my children. They see, probably more than anyone, the ugliness of my sin. 

When I think about my weaknesses, I think about 2 Corinthians 12:9 which tells me there is power in my weakness. 

"My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness. Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weakness, so that Christ's power may rest on me."

That is such an ideal response to my feebleness, but also one that prompts me to roll my eyes. It seems a bit too trite when my weakness is spilling out into our entire home, even bringing out the weaknesses of my children. Where is the power in that?

In the next verse, Paul really goes for it and tells me to delight in my weakness. Good grief. 

"That is why, for Christ's sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong."

Oh, Paul. You're killing me. 

*****

Apologizing to your children is such a beautiful idea. The image of a mother, coming humbly before her children to admit wrong and seek forgiveness sounds so saintly. But when I'm that mom, the one knocking on a door covered with My Little Pony drawings and entering a room painted Fizzleberry Pink, it doesn't feel beautiful; it feels humiliating. 

"Hey, girl. I really blew it tonight, and I am sorry for my part in that mess. I got angry too quickly. My words and tone were not loving, and I'm sorry."

She forgives me quickly. No drawn-out discussion. No rehashing the ugly.

"It's ok, mom. Sorry I was loud during your phone call."

*****

The world tells me that my children's behavior depends on my behavior, their successes rest on my success, and their failures reflect my failure. Oh, please Jesus, don't let that be true. I am clinging to the hope that this world knows nothing of God's ability to use my weakness and failures to bless my children. I am believing in the absurdity that my God is in the business of turning weakness into blessing. 

In a world that idolizes perfection, maybe one of the best things I can do for my children is to acknowledge my weakness in front of them. When they hear me say that my anger and impatience are wrong - when they hear me apologize and ask for forgiveness - when they hear me pray for the Holy Spirit to change my heart and my words - this is when the Gospel starts to make its way into our home in practical ways. They are pounded with lessons in obedience, constantly taught to do what is right in order to please me, or teachers, babysitters, coaches, and even friends. Yes, I want to raise obedient, self-sufficient children, but not children who are so confident in their own strength and abilities that they can hardly see their need for grace. Allowing my children to see me fail might be a gift, freeing them from the grip of perfection and awakening them to our desperate need for Jesus. 

I often thought 2 Corinthians 12:9-10 was a bit patronizing - a Christian cliche quoted in the midst of troubled times to comfort you with a vague sense of hope. But today, God is showing me how these words can bring real freedom on the messy days of motherhood. 

When you are weak, you stop depending on your own ability. My strength is magnified. 

When you are weak, you readily accept the grace I'm always offering. My strength is magnified. 

When you are weak, you see me be strong. My strength is magnified. 

Strong as a mother?

Nah.

Weak as a mother.

Absolutely. 

That probably wouldn't sell as many shirts. 

she will fall and fly

For eight years I stood at the classroom door eagerly greeting my darling first graders as they approached our room. I imagine my smile was over-the-top, but I can assure you, it was genuine. Like so many teachers, I'd spent weeks preparing every nook and cranny of my room - mailboxes were labeled, bulletin boards were decorated, books were organized. This kind of extreme devotion was easy because I had no other responsibilities at home; a kid-free home meant all the time in the world to give to my first graders, and I was happy to do it.

"Hi there! I'm Mrs. Becker!" I'd say as I bent down to meet their nervous eyes. "I'm so glad you're here!"

Most of them came with their parents, but to tell you the truth, I don't remember the parents. I didn't notice if a parent was nervous or hesitant or fighting back tears. I never considered that dropping their child off at my door for a new school year was anything more than an item on the to-do list for that day. It didn't occur to me that these moms and dads would be worried about their child being picked on or left out or sitting alone in the lunchroom. Were they nervous their child would learn something on the playground they were "too young to know about?" I didn't realize they were entrusting me with such a precious gift, assuming I would teach their child to read and write, but mostly hoping I'd teach them to be kind and brave and confident.

Parents surrounded me, bombarding me with questions and information regarding their child's allergies and bathroom schedule and who they should or shouldn't sit near.

“He can't eat mangoes. Are you planning any activities with mangoes?"

"Will you help her find the afternoon bus? She's never been on the bus before."

"Sometimes her stomach hurts when she's nervous."

"He's been doing puzzles since he was 9 months. I think he might be gifted." 

"Every other Tuesday his Nana will pick him up. That's Nana - not Grandma. Grandma should never pick him up. If she tries to, you need to call me right away. Oh, and on the third Friday of the month, our neighbor will pick him up."

"Please let her go to the bathroom whenever she asks."

"He is pretty shy. Who will he sit by?"

"Will you call me if he cries?"

"What's the first math unit? Will there be homework?"

I'd chuckle at the parent who needed one more hug, and I'd roll my eyes at the one who needed to tell me again to let her daughter go to the bathroom whenever she asked. And eventually, I grew frustrated with the ones who just wouldn't leave. I was relieved when our principal came on the intercom, inviting parents to say their final good-byes and head to the library for a PTO sponsored coffee break.

We would be fine, and I was excited to get started. I had been at this long enough to know we'd all find the bus and the lunchroom and that our room full of strangers would soon become friends. I knew the nervous butterflies would be gone by the time we gathered on the rug to vote for a class mascot. I knew that bumps along the way would build character and problem-solving skills in my little six-year-olds. I wasn't worried; they'd all be great. In fact, I thought I had the hard job. I was the one about to be left alone with 24 children. All mom and dad had to do was wave good-bye. Weren't they celebrating the freedom? Perhaps heading out to brunch and clinking mimosa glasses?

I was such a fool.

*****

Tomorrow morning, Stephen and I will walk Charlotte to her classroom. She's been there three times already and knows exactly where to go; she'll probably lead the way. We will watch as her sweet smiling teacher greets her and tells her it is going to be a great year. I know her teacher will have a hundred things on her mind so I'll fight the urge to tell her that Charlotte loves to draw and will want to know where the blank paper is right away. I know this isn't the time for questions, so I'll hold my tongue instead of asking if they have snack time. Wait, was I supposed to pack a snack? Charlotte ate breakfast at 7, and lunch isn't until 12:30. That's a really long time. Charlotte will probably get cranky. I didn't read anything about snack time. Did I miss it?

I wonder if her sweet teacher will notice I'm fighting back tears. Does she know that for years we've been able to get up and go to the zoo any morning we want to? What if we want to eat pancakes in our pjs and read books all morning? Surely there's a park we still need to explore or a play date we might miss. The thought of life now dictated by a school schedule makes me want to grab Charlotte's little hand and run out of there. School? Sorry, maybe next year. We have a story time at the library to get to.

I know Charlotte will love it. In fact, I'm confident she won't even look back. She won't need one more hug, and she won't have any interest in taking another picture. She'll adore her teacher, make friends quickly, and soak in knowledge like a thirsty little sponge. But school is a long time. Did you know that after kindergarten they go to first grade? And then second grade? And they keep going. FOREVER. There really is no way to back up and do it again.

I am such a fan of school. I loved it as a child and even more as a teacher. But I know kids can and will be brutal, and there are times when she'll be left out and put down. Even worse, she will do her own share of leaving out and putting down. School will likely be where she learns her first cuss word, and I'm practicing my "stay calm" face for the day she comes home asking about sex. School is her first glimpse into a broken world - a world ready to lie to her, saying she isn't good enough, or thin enough, or pretty enough. School will expose weaknesses, causing her to doubt herself and her abilities. But school will also reveal her strengths, not just academically, but also in character. She will be constantly presented with opportunities to love fiercely in word and in deed. To be brave enough to speak truth when it is easier to stay silent. To care more what God thinks than what others think.

School will become her life, and in my rational grown-up moments I know that life is a mix of cruelty and beauty. I know she will fall and fly just like my students did, and I don't actually want her to stay little forever. I want her to follow her curiosity and find her passions. I want her to struggle through the challenges of school because it will teach her to do hard things. I want her to be face-to-face with hatred and choose kindness instead. I want her to discovery the thrill of following Jesus. 

But I also want to go to the zoo on Tuesdays and eat pancakes in our pjs til 10 in the morning.