You will never arrive at becoming the ideal mother of your dreams.

Unless,

your vision of an ideal mother is sinful…as in, she sins. She messes up. She is fully and completely sin-filled. And yet, so very loved.

Before I became a mother, I had motherhood figured out. I knew exactly what kind of mother I would be, and I knew what I wanted. I had visions for the future that involved pumpkin picking and giggles and bouncing pigtails. Tucking God’s Word diligently into their little hearts daily, studying scripture together, singing and always obedience. I knew I would read to my children for hours on end, and in my daydreams, we were all happy and peaceful. I dreamed of these things because I wanted them. I still do. I just left out one very important part of my dream.

Reality.

I didn’t consider sin. I didn’t consider my fallen body that is so often tired. I didn’t consider my emotions, my dark days, or my selfish ones. I didn’t consider their dark days or selfish ones. The only thoughts I had about their bad moments had to do with disobedience, and I would swiftly deal with any disobedience. I read books on disciplining and training children. I would be ready for that. But everyday sin? Tiredness? Darkness? The Mundane of it all? The needs, the asks, the energy, the day-in and day-out of it all…I didn’t consider it, because I just didn’t think of it.

And no one told me.

No one told me that there would be days I’d want to hide all day. No one told me I would be so tired some days that all I could do was cry. No one told me that formula’s don’t work very often. No one told me that my selfishness wouldn’t disappear the moment I had children. No one told me I would get depressed sometimes, or feel achingly lonely, or be too tired for sex, or that some days I would feel like I was drowning.

I believe my purpose in life is to be a loving, nurturing, freedom-giving, grace-filled, truth-teaching, mother. I have other purposes, but this, for me, is the big one. So don’t think for one second that I don’t love my children, or that I’m not grateful for them, or that I would ever wish do anything but what I’m doing being with them day-in and day-out. They’re stuck with me; they’re my crew.

But there is a reality that is not beautiful.

Having children means daily being in the mess of sin and immaturity. It is exhausting, painfully stretching, and eye-opening to just how selfish we really are.

It’s all just hard.

But it’s good.

It is so good, because if you dive into that mess with your babes, you have the opportunity to be like Jesus. You can come to the weak and helpless and sinful and hurting and lost and you can love and comfort and nurture and lift up. You can be a freedom-giver.

You’ve just got to come up with another meaning for ideal, and another meaning for beautiful.

Ideal must mean, “Lord, what do you say? Teach me to mother my children within who you made me to be. Help me to hear the Holy Spirit and walk by faith in my mothering.”

Beautiful must mean, “Lord, help me to remember that I am only beautiful because of you, and my children can be beautiful because of you. You take my ugly heart, and my brokenness, and you give me your beautiful self living in me. Never let me forget, and help me to instill this truth into my children daily.”

If you can grasp onto the freedom of Biblical ideals and beauty, if you can accept the reality of sin, you will be able to persevere with confidence and strength in God. It will never be easy, but it will be worth it.

Keep on,

SarahMae

P.S. The giggles, the unique weaving of a soul, the little toes, the cuddles, the jokes, the quirks, the friendship, the fun…it’s sacred, it’s breathtaking, it’s awesome. I love being a mother.

I have this beautiful, spunky, 3 year old wild one wonder who keeps me humble and on my toes.

She is sweet and funny, but she can throw a tantrum like nobody’s business. Just the other day we were in the living room and she asked for something. I told her no and offered other solutions, but she was set on what she wanted. When she couldn’t have the object of her desire, she flew herself on the floor and proceeded to cry and whine and roll around. I tried to comfort her, talk to her, reason with her, but she just kept saying…err…yelling, “I don’t want you!” What a punch to a mama heart to hear those words, over and over and over again.

I don’t want you.

That’s her way, when she doesn’t get what she wants, she goes for the kill.

I don’t want you.

I try and calm her, I try ignoring her (which makes her more crazy…and loud), I threaten discipline, and am prepared to deal it out, but as nothing is working I try something else.

I look at her as stern as possible and I say, “If you don’t stop fussing, I’m going to eat your toes.”

I say this in all seriousness.

She doesn’t know quite how to react. I can see the threat rolling over in her mind. She fusses some more, and I lean down and I say, “that’s it, those toes are mine.”

I begin to nibble on her toes. I exaggerate how good there are.

She giggles, but tries to fuss.

The giggling wins.

We laugh and I tickle her and chase her around, I swing her and then I play “This little piggy” on her toes and all of a sudden she forgot her fuss.

After a few minutes of giggling and play, we go on with our day. All is well.

My solution for dealing with a temper tantrum with my wild one (when it isn’t an issue of tiredness or hunger)? Play, chase, nibble, giggle, tickle.

I realize this solution might not work for every child because every child is different, but if you have a bit of a spunky tantrum-flinging babe, give this a try. It sure beats anger and exasperation. Instead of a punishment or action that would leave us all in tears, we end up in ball of laughter.

I like this, and I’ll take it.

Plus, her toes are pretty yummy!

Even if you feel a million miles away from God, or He feels a million miles away from you, remember…

If you know Him, He can’t possibly be a million miles away from you because He is between every heart beat and under every breath.

He is stretching through your spirit, and He surrounds your soul.

He is right there. Always.

Hold onto this truth today, even if you don’t feel it.

“Do you not know that you are a temple of God and that the Spirit of God dwells in you?” 1 Corinthians 3:16

A barbie shoe.

It was a barbie shoe in the grass that prompted her to yell at me. I had been playing barbies with my friends outside on a blanket, but somehow, that shoe ended up in the grass.

My stomach tightened and my hands shook. I hated being yelled at. I hated the tension of how to act after the yelling. I hated feeling like I was always creeping over land-mines.

The shoe, that was just one time of many.

Today I gave that feeling to my daughter.

I screamed. And then I sat on my steps and cried. I held my hair in my hands and I shook. Have I become her?

She shook. With big eyes and her body half hidden behind the doorway, she nodded that she would clean. I yelled at her because she didn’t clean. “I’m sorry, I just wish you would do as your told.” My feet dragged my body up the steps and into my bedroom where my bed caught me and I cried. I could hear her crying downstairs. All for what?

My husband had had a bad day at work, and I had a bad day, and the badness of the day got flung onto my kids through the sharpest weapon I have: my tongue.

And in bed as I cried I remembered the tension and the shaking and how I hated being yelled at.

Back down the steps.

She was on the couch. We were two teary-eyed girls who needed each other. She nuzzled into my body and I rubbed her head and I said, “I hate being yelled at. I did to do you what I hate. I’m so sorry.” We held each other for a long while, and then we began again.

In those moments of cuddling, God’s grace broke through the guilt and regret by telling me that I wasn’t her. I never had anyone rub my head or cuddle me or tell me they shouldn’t yell at me. I never had the warmth of a nuzzle; I was left with only the tension.

But my girl, she has my skin close to hers, and my heart, and my love, and my warmth. She has my sorrow. I may have botched up in a moment of incredible weakness, but I am not my weakness.

God shows up in the cracks; His light comes through my dark, and we go on. We kick tension to the curb.

You can kick it, too.

We all botch up, every day, some days, but we don’t have to stay there, in the mess. Sure, we can, if we choose to stay hardened, to not apologize, to not accept His unwavering grace. But we also have the choice to lay ourselves low. We can feel sorrow and we can get up from the muck. We can enter into real love when we break before others and let Him bind us up; they see the mending and the scars, but they forgive us, as we forgive them. This is grace and freedom. And with grace and freedom there is no room for tension, the painful, ugly tension that strangles a soul.

You can choose to begin again.

And again.

And again.

His grace never retires.

He will never quit you and the work He is doing in you.

Begin.

Love, SM

Twice now she said, “You never listen to me.”

Never?

Never is big and I’m pretty sure “never” is not accurate, but to her, it is.

To her, it’s never.

My insides hurt and I want to say, “Yes I do!” I want to defend myself. But what is the good in that? So I tell her I will listen. And I tell her I try and always listen and be fair and really hear what she’s saying, but sometimes I don’t do it right. I ask her to come to me. “You feel offended, and that I’m treating you unfairly?” “Yes, and I’m sad and angry and I don’t know why.” “Okay, let’s talk about that.”

She talks, I hear and take in, and I try to unravel the web of bitterness in a little ones heart. Strand by strand I gently pull until we get a little closer to the knot being undone. I can see the knot, but I know that I can’t get it out, it’s too tight. I ask her if we can pray. She says yes. We go to the only One who can untangle our mess, all the mess that is of  hurt, self-righteousness, anger, and un-forgiveness.

Amen.

She lingers on my lap for awhile,  her head on my shoulder.

We just sit.

How tender is a young heart, and how easily wounds fester. I’m 32 and I wonder at the wounds in my own heart. I feel more untangled now than ever; freedom is all over me because of Him. But I have understanding; I’ve lived and I’ve fought for freedom. My little ones, they don’t understand the fullness of forgiveness and sin and pain and injustice. They haven’t lived enough. It’s confusing for them, they just know how they feel. I’m the sorter-outer.

We, us mamas and daddies, we’re the ones who have to keep at the sorting. We must keep on listening, really listening, discerning, and teaching our babes so they can be open to freedom. We help make the way for Jesus.  With compassion, patience, and time we give to the work of sorting the heart strings so He can come in tie them up new and beautiful.

It’s slow and meticulous, and it requires nothing short of grace.

“God puts the fallen on their feet again.” Psalm 147:6

Love, SM