My beautiful truth #4 of 2019 actually started a couple of years prior, so I thought I’d write a post to segue into it, rather than try to cram it all into one epically long post.
With as much stealth as I could muster, I made my way to the dilapidated building. I paused for a moment, unsure as to how I should proceed. The enemy was somewhere behind me, of this I was certain, and my hesitation gave fear the opening it needed. A feeling of dread swept over me, a certainty of imminent attack making my blood pulse. Spinning around, slashing with my knife, I encountered only empty air. I raised my weapon, mean and black, and perused the area…
The wrinkly stranger pooped. Again. I looked up at the kind nurse charting my vitals and gestured feebly. “Do you want me to show you again, honey?” Her eyes crinkled a bit as she set down her clipboard and grabbed a new diaper from the bag of freebies on my bedside tray. Explaining the pertinent information once again, she wrangled my squirming daughter expertly, wiping up the mess and ensconcing her in a fresh nappy faster than I could ever imagine doing.
The birth of my first child was a much-anticipated event. After several rounds of fertility drugs, we had been ecstatic to see the faint blue line appear on the pee stick. Now, three baby showers, one midnight life-flight, and six weeks of bed rest later, I was reeling. Looking down at my tiny daughter, I felt an emotion I had not expected. Fear. I had expected the joy, the relief, and the exhaustion. I did not anticipate this black hole of fear that threatened to swallow me whole.
Finish reading over at Me Too Moments For Moms. See you there!
The silence of the predawn hour was pure bliss. Sipping my coffee, I wondered what my Mother’s Day would bring. As I thought of what I would enjoy most, several images flashed through my mind.
*Swollen, chubby newborn faces. The magic of seeing for the first time a person who, until that moment, I’d only felt.
My husband is a pillow freak. To be fair, I now fall into that category too, but when we were newly married I didn’t get it. I mean, seriously, who needs four pillows to sleep comfortably? He did eventually convert me and, on this particular day, I was grateful for the over abundance of heavenly plushness gracing my bed.
Two days ago, I sank into my lush, soft nest and cried. This wasn’t a hopeless, overwhelmed, or angry crying bout. These were I’m-incredibly-weary-just-want-to-feel-better-not-sure-I-can-stand-it-anymore tears. It’s rare that I get to this point, but after three weeks of what is quite possibly the worst flare up of joint/muscle/nerve pain I’ve ever known, I was done in. I’m so very tired of hurting.
The Proverbs 31 woman seriously annoys me. She rests now, for all eternity, in the pages of holy scripture, the paragon of virtue. I feel tired and irritable just reading about her. In twenty-two verses, we find that she is industrious, shrewd, generous, and compassionate. She is wise, frugal, and vigilant. She is, in short, everything I am not.
I picture her resting in the presence of Jesus, looking down at me and shaking her head. “I set the best example I could, Lord.” I’m not sure how God replies because my imagination can’t get past the mockery that laces her soft, feminine voice. You could say that I have a bit of a complex where this woman is concerned. The quintessential Christian woman; a doer, not a dreamer like myself.
The back burners of my mind have been plumb full these past few weeks. You know, those spaces on the outskirts of our consciousness, just outside of the focus of our daily doings. While we carry on with our duties, our dreams and ideas can sit and simmer, waiting for our attention. When we have free moments we can stir and season, discarding some thoughts and savoring others.
“I don’t do guilt.” I stated offhandedly. The ladies in my homeschool co-op class looked at me strangely. A couple of them were looking at me as though I were a fascinating new species altogether. “How do you do that?” one of them asked in awed tones. “Yeah, I want to hear more about it.” chimed in another. I laughed, shrugged it off, and proceeded with the lesson of the day.
I almost missed a birth in my kitchen the other day. It was the birthing of a dream; an idea that, once conceived in my youngest child’s mind, was demanding to be born. “I want to fly, Momma.” She stated matter-of-factly. “Can we buy a helium tank and some balloons?”
Being the proverbial wet blanket, I continued loading the dishwasher and listed all of the reasons why we could not bring her idea to fruition. It would never work. We could never afford enough helium. We would need special equipment. On and on I imparted practical wisdom which I assumed would settle the matter. I was mistaken. My youngest, like many a family ‘baby,’ is stubborn. Bone-deep stubborn. “Can’t we at least try?” Something in her tone took me aback. She was serious. She really wanted to try this.