Motherhood

As I pondered today which picture I could post on social media depicting the joy of motherhood and thanking the children and family who have made me a mother, I quickly realized it wasn’t as simple as finding the best recent picture of Patricia, Elliot, and myself. For one, they would not exist if it weren’t for my husband. A picture with the four of us then? Or just one with him and me to highlight the fact that he is the one who made me a mother? Still not enough. 

When I pray for my children each morning, the beginning often goes like this: “Father, I thank you for Patricia, Elliot, and the rest of my children.” The rest being mainly Noah’s Ark children, with a few other gems I have taken under my wing in one way or another over the years. 

It is a strange situation, this partial-parenting business. So many different aunties and a few uncles, each standing in the role of parent in one way or another for children who do not have their own. We all know the scenario where if Mom says no, a child can go to Dad with the same question and get a more favorable answer before Mom has any idea she has been double crossed. Now imagine that, but when you have 50 different parents to which you can go. Consistency is a challenge, to say the least. Structure is provided on an institutional level—wake up at 6:00 am, porridge at 7:00, when to bathe, what time to go to bed. 

In two months, I will have been here nine years. The baby I picked up from the police station in my first month now stands as tall as my shoulder. My namesake, “Little” Katie. Now instead of sitting on my lap and playing drums with a pan and wooden spoon, she cooks a whole meal with instructions and supervision but very little physical help. Is this parenting? Is this motherhood? 

When exactly did I become a mother? That question has been pestering me today. 

Was it when Patricia was born? On some level, yes. That was the first time Christian and I were 100 percent responsible for the survival of a breathing, crying human being. I remember the night she was born, at three in the morning when the last in-law and midwife left the apartment, and it was just us. No one left to tell us what to do. No one else to interpret our newborn’s cries or instruct us on the next step. We felt the weight of responsibility like we felt the exhilaration of first-time parenthood. Was it that night, listening to my infant suck on her own fist like her life depended on it, that I became a mother? 

Or was it earlier, when her life started growing inside of me? At the Oregon coast the first time we heard her heartbeat on a doppler, or sitting in the airplane in Dubai when I felt the first flutters of her kicks? At that point we were still calling her Norbert. It was a magical thing, having a child that we didn’t yet really know. Especially those first weeks, when we were the only two people in the world who knew of her existence. I remember feeling like it was a miraculous secret, something I was bursting to tell everyone but also treasuring in my heart just for us, for now. 

But I don’t think that was the moment I became a mother either. The problem is—okay, maybe it is not a problem, per se—the thing is, I cannot pinpoint a moment when motherhood began. 

Was it in 2013 when six-month-old Josephine curled up on my chest and fell asleep and I knew I was in love? 

Was it when nursery-school-aged Isaac ran to me with a flying hug on parent-teacher conference day and jubilantly cried, “My parent!”? 

Was it when I picked up Katie and Colin from the police station and she was named after me? 

Was it when Thomas started spending every afternoon at my house as if it was his second home? 

Was it when I read books in the children’s home with the oldest group of girls every night, or when I went room to room singing lullabies as the children went to bed? 

Was it when teenagers started confessing sins and struggles to me, asking for advice and prayer and acceptance and forgiveness? 

Was it when one by one, other aunties and staff members left Noah’s Ark, leaving only a handful of us who have been a part of the children’s lives this long? 

Does it go back even further, to LWBC and our Ellie Adventure Days and afternoons at camp with Will? 

The first children’s sleepover in my house? The first time I cried at their pain? The first time I had to discipline? The first time I had to ask a child for forgiveness? 

Where does motherhood actually start? Is there a real beginning? 

In this culture, motherhood is fluid. Aunties and grandparents are often called mothers if they have taken on a role of caring for a child. In the beginning, it confused me—a friend could tell me her mother had died years ago and then next week go for the burial of her mother. Or someone could introduce me to two different women in the same day, calling both of them her mother. It took some time before I stopped second-guessing what I had heard and realized that yes, all these women were mothers. It takes a village, doesn’t it? 

Our church service today illustrated the complexity of institutional parenthood. The CEO did not ask all mothers to stand up. That would have been a simple request, but one that would leave more than half of the adults in the church in a gray area. Biological mothers? Adoptive mothers? Mothers by profession? Instead, he asked every woman 18 years and older to stand up. He acknowledged that some of us have families in our own homes, some are aunties whose job is literally to parent these children, and some—like our grown-up teenagers—have no official parenting role or title, but have been caring for young ones for years already. Every one of us was a mother in some sense of the word. And every one deserved to be celebrated and appreciated today.

This Mother’s Day, my (biological) children and I spent some time thanking the other mother figures in their lives. Elliot spent the morning with Ruth, his favorite teenage baby-sitter. We made cards and delivered cookies to Auntie Rebecca, who runs the daycare with such love and care that we never have to worry whether our children are in good hands. After the church service I gave Priscilla, another of our teenagers and favorite baby-sitters, a quick hug and thanked her for her love for my kids. And that is barely scratching the surface. I have to say, I am a big fan of our village. 

I still need to sift through my pictures and find one that can fit with this post and this day, but I am relieving myself of the pressure of finding one perfect photo to sum up what motherhood means to me. One will not suffice. Not by a long shot. (I haven’t even mentioned the mothers it took to make me, and make me a mother!) But let me end this Mother’s Day with a heart full of gratitude for the mothers, children, and family who have made me a mother in so many different senses of the word. On this day especially, I thank God for you. 

Happy Mother’s Day. 

Go Home and Sit on the Couch

As I was reading my book this morning, the author made a contrast between doing something meaningful with your life versus going home and sitting on the couch. Now, I agree with the point one hundred percent, but it invited the question: Is my couch really that bad? As I pondered the literal implications of never going home and sitting on the couch, dozens of images flashed before my eyes of moments—big and small, alone and with loved ones, recent and years ago—in which my couch set the scene for love, honesty, change, relationship, rest, meaningful work, and a host of other abstract nouns of which I would never want to trade in. And it made me realize that sometimes going home and sitting on the couch is exactly how you can do something meaningful with your life. 

I think of the countless mornings I have carried one of my children like a baby from their bed to the couch, snuggling together in an attempt to wake them up gently. Inevitably the other one wakes up in the process and joins us in the living room, sometimes settling comfortably in beside us and sometimes fighting for the “best” space. What begins as drowsiness develops into play-sleeping until finally someone cracks a real smile or lets a giggle erupt from their mouth and lets us all know the tiredness is now an act and we should really get started with our day.

I think of the teenager who sat across from me on the couch one evening and told me a long story about how her mother had tried, on more than one occasion, to marry her off during lockdown. How she ran away from home when she saw another potential suitor coming and how she was nervous about going back to that home in the school holiday. How she wasn’t sure she would ever be able to forgive her mother. 

I think of the dark, quiet mornings when I sit on my couch with my Bible and a cup of tea, centering my day on God before the rest of the family wakes up and fills the space on the couch and in my mind. I have lit candles, prayed, cried, kept a long list of gratitude, read my Bible, journaled, and sometimes fallen asleep. Blessed moments in the comfort of my own blessed home. 

I think of all the meetings we have had on this couch, planning the holiday program, camp, Sunday school, assemblies, cantatas, and more. It has been a productive space as our colleagues from all ages and departments have, in turn, taken a seat on our couch to pray and imagine and plan and dream. So many ideas have taken root or bloomed from the comfort of our living room. 

I think of both times Christian and I sat on the couch together and I told him I was pregnant. The first time was met with a joyful and anticipatory hug as we began to imagine how much our lives were about to change. The second time was met with wide-eyed disbelief, as our daughter was not yet one year old and this was definitely not our plan. 

Then I think of the evening after Elliot was born. Patricia sat in her high chair, making a mess as usual. She half paid attention as we watched Jumanji and ate pizza we had ordered in. Christian and I sat on the couch, with 20-hour-old Elliot nestled in the crook of my knee, sleeping peacefully through the commotion of the movie. It was one of our first memories together as a family of four. 

I think of sitting side-by-side with a teenager, holding hands and praying after they confessed their addiction to porn and asked for help growing closer to God again. This has been a sacred space. It has been a space of repentance. 

I think of how on Thursday mornings the four of us pile onto the couch, everyone except me with eyes still half shut and mouths wide open in yawns as we Skype with my family in an inconveniently different time zone. How as soon as my mom shows the tower of blocks she built or shows the “guess what’s in the bag” bag my children begin to sit up a little straighter and open their eyes a little wider. And how by the end of the conversation they are so awake and riled up that any adult conversation is finally thrown out the window as the toddlers demand any and all attention from both continents. 

I think of playing four-on-a-couch with the Good Samaritans, laughing hysterically and making fun of one another for making a bad move in the game. On those Monday nights as we pile twelve extra people into our house for fellowship, Bible study, and service, the couch is quickly filled with more teenage tushies than it is designed to hold as they come here to grow closer to one another and closer to God. 

I think of snuggling up to my husband on the couch after we have had a hard conversation, sharing the same space and reminding each other that we are in this together, no matter what. From the days before we were dating when he used to help me with my post-burn stretching while we watched Big Bang Theory (because I liked him, not the show), much of our relationship has transpired in this very place. 

I think of the nights I sat on my couch in the dark, breastfeeding one of our babies in the living room so I wouldn’t wake up Christian. Or the nights my baby stayed asleep and I sat alone on the couch to pump milk for an undernourished baby in the children’s home, hoping that what made my own children so fat would work the same wonders on her. 

I think of the children who have slept on our couch for a night, excited to have a sleepover and stay up much too late watching movies. 

I think of how Patricia and Elliot need only seconds to lay all the couch cushions flat to transform it into their very own bouncy castle, no matter how many times we tell them not too or how many times they bounce off and hurt themselves. 

I think of being sandwiched between my two favorite little humans in the evening, teeth brushed and pajamas on, reading Dig Dig Digging one hundred times over, and occasionally another book if they are feeling adventurous that night. 

So no, I will not say that going home and sitting on the couch is the opposite of getting up and living a meaningful life. If the events that have transpired on my couch are not full of meaning, I can guarantee I won’t find it anywhere else either. So go ahead—go home and sit on your couch today. See what comes of it.

Marine

I met Nate Walker in the summer of 2008 at Lake Waubesa Bible Camp. He was simultaneously one of the most serious people I have ever met, his heart set on joining the Marines and serving his country, and one of the biggest goofballs who has ever walked into my life. If you look at pictures of him, I feel like you basically see those two extremes and not much in between. 

We worked together at camp for two summers, and in that time became best friends. We spent countless hours sitting by the lake, by day or by night, discussing every issue under the sun, laughing about a good deal of it and crying sometimes too. We upheld one another in prayer and wrote letters when he was in basic training and deployed to Afghanistan. We liked each other at different times--never the same time--and that was okay because our friendship was exactly what we needed it to be. 

Seven years ago, I consciously stepped out of his life to make space for someone else. It was one of the hardest decisions I ever made, but I always assumed someday the time would come to step back in again. 

I did my best to prepare myself to lose him when he joined the Marines. I wrote Part I of the following poems as an assignment for English class shortly after he enlisted. I was scared he would not come back, or that he would come back a different man than the one I knew. "When You Go" details some of the different ways I imagined I would hear about his death, even before he left the country.

I wrote Part II yesterday as a way to process what had actually happened to him. On the one hand, Nate has not been an active part of my life for several years. I lost him long ago; I just didn't expect it to be forever. On the other hand, letting go of the hope and expectation that my best friend of seven years would one day be a close friend again is proving difficult. 

My heart goes out to his wife, who has lost her best friend in an infinitely bigger way than I have. To his children, who are so young they will grow up without a single memory of their loving and goofball father, never knowing the man he was. To his parents, who are some of the most caring and faithful people I have had the privilege to know, and who were incredibly proud of him. To his sister, who looked up to him and cheered him on. And to the countless others whose lives he touched--and saved, given the nature of his work and life. 

Nate... this is for you.

-------------------------------------------------

MARINE, PART I  (2009)

PROMISE ME 

The dock is shaking. Splinters 

needle their way into my shoulders, 

but if I sit up I won’t be able to see 

the lightning. Not that it’s visible 

anyway with you dancing over me

like that. You with that goofy smile, 

crooked as it may be. Distant thunder 

plays the bass drum for your midnight 

dance, announcing the end of training 

for camp. Only June, but time needs

to slow down already. Soon you’ll be 

at another training, the one where they 

cut your hair, hand you guns, and name you 

“Recruit.” That is who you’ll be 

in two months, but I like you now, 

even if you are blocking the summer 

storm. Back and forth, back and forth, 

your hands are upside-down pendulums. 

“This is my windshield wiper dance!” 

You goof. The Marine Corps necklace 

bounces off your chest with every step, 

in rhythm with my head resonating 

against the dock. It’s jumping with you. 

Ka-plu-clunk. Ka-plu-clunk. Promise 

me something. Promise me that when 

you come back, you will still 

do the windshield wiper dance.

CONNECTIONS

As I step out of the shower, 

your necklace (my necklace?) 

is cold on my bare chest. The dull 

silver an accent mark on my pale skin, 

surrounded by goosebumps. It looks 

bigger on me than it did on you. 

You’re on the phone, returned 

from a week in the field,

sweaty, hungry, exhausted. 

They built you fake 

cities, gave you blank 

ammunition, bandaged your counterfeit 

wounds, all for a twelve-hour battle 

in the California desert. 

Private First Class Walker, 

bullet-proof vest and buzz cut, 

ready for action. Of course 

you were grinning the whole time. 

This real life video game is 

what you love. 

You had tanks, you had enemies. 

The dust stuck to your face paint 

and your pants caught on barbed wire. 

It was like Black Hawk Down, 

you say. Have you seen it? 

Yes, I’ve seen it, I say. 

People died. 

I don’t say that. 

The string has been on my wrist 

for a year now. Please 

tell me you are 

                invincible 

like string. 

I protect it like I wish 

I could protect you. 

You tied a good knot.

WHEN YOU GO

I was standing by the mailboxes 

in Harstad. Now I’m crumbling. 

Mail is supposed to be fun, but this letter 

is heavy, sinking into the carpet 

like I am. It fell before I could obliterate 

it, drown it, make a paper grenade 

and pull the pin. It screams white, 

but instead of surrender it slays 

me. Huddled against the wall, the mailboxes 

carve into my head, but I’m motionless. 

In one sentence, I was paralyzed. I want 

to fold the paper up, place it neatly 

into its envelope and send it back, demand 

a return, this letter for your life.

I’m walking by the pond, on the path 

with the two cracks that have met 

and made love and then multiplied 

into crevasses in the concrete. My body 

shudders like your mom’s voice 

on the phone. Why, why would you

ever make her say this? Color 

drains from the world around me, or maybe 

it drains from my face. I am numb, hard 

like the pavement. I want to jump inside 

the crevasse, bury my head and let my tears 

water the earth that has lost its color. 

I am in my room. No phone, no letter, but 

I can feel it. I know. Emptiness is tangible 

as the autumn air sneaking past the cracked 

window. It tickles the hairs on my arms 

and whirlpools around my soggy face. 

Every once in awhile, my heart pretends 

to try. Thump, sniffle, thump, thump, gasp. 

When I know you’re not breathing, sometimes 

I forget too. Absence suffocates me.

Funny thing is, you haven’t even left yet.

-------------------------------------------------

MARINE, PART II  (2022)

Where 

is the box? 

I rummage through 

my overcrowded, cluttered 

mind, knowing I tucked it away 

somewhere—somewhere safe, to retrieve 

at a moment’s notice, only the moment never came. 

The box full of experiences, laughter, conversations, 

tears, arguments, dances, smiles, games, jokes, 

forgiveness, memories. So many things I 

knew about you, I had hidden in the 

box for safekeeping, only now 

the box is nowhere

to be found, 

just like

you.

My eyes sting, and my heart aches

because I can’t remember your 

windshield wiper dance. 

I can imagine it, but I can’t remember it.

Which dock was it?

What were you saying? 

Was I scared you were going to

jump on my head? 

My eyes sting, and my heart aches

because I can’t remember the

moment you tied the string on my wrist. 

Where did the string come from? 

Why did you tie it on me? 

What were you saying? 

Did I consider removing it? 

Did I give you one too? 

The string that had been on my wrist

for more than a year 

came off. 

It was not invincible. 

Neither were you.

When you came back from war

I thought your battles were over. 

I didn’t know they were only beginning.

Slowly walking along the dock, 

listening to the water kiss the shore

and tickle the pier’s legs stretching 

down into the gentle waves, 

I do not hear you. 

(You are a sniper, after all.)

I see your toes first, and they

surprise me. Panning up, as

in a movie, I take in more

and more of you, standing 

three feet in front of me, until 

my eyes land on your goofy smile

way up there in the atmosphere

laughing, incredulous that I had 

not heard you coming; did not know

you were there.

You were always there. 

You would always be there. 

For years, that was the truth.

But then you weren’t. 

And neither was I. 

We are both to blame. 

I always assumed one day, one time

you would resurface in my life. 

Real best friends do that, do they not? 

It was never a question of if, 

only when, where, and how old we 

would both be when that time came. 

And now? 

You are the one who cannot resurface,

but we are the ones who cannot breathe.

I had almost forgotten

you were the one who chopped

down a tree while I was 

still in it. 

Who will laugh about that with me now?

An email washed up after

some deep-sea diving in my archives

from me to you, seven years ago. 

We never imagined this would be one

of our last conversations. 

“I’m scared of losing you,” I said.

“I love you, and I love our friendship

and I am so, so tired of things

changing and of having to say goodbye

to the people I love.”

To one of the best friends

who has ever walked unexpectedly 

into—and out of—my life, 

thank you and

(dare I say it?)

goodbye. 

Nate and I praying together before
he left for basic training in 2009.

Quarantine with Kids

On Monday morning, Christian and I sat down to pray together, as we (try to) do everyday. 

“How can I pray for you?” he asked. 

“I feel overwhelmed,” I said. “I am behind in everything and have extra things to do this week. I want to do them, but now my group is leading Sunday school praise and worship so we need to practice for that, the Webale group is leading praise and worship on Friday so we have three days of practice for that, the aunties are leading praise and worship on Sunday so that also means practice Thursday afternoon. I haven’t given reading lessons in weeks because I was waiting until I could get special needs cleaned up but that hasn’t happened yet because other things keep coming up. We need to write our newsletter and plan assemblies and… I’m just tired. I want a break.” 

We prayed for rest. 

On Monday afternoon, my head felt the slightest bit funny. I took my temperature and had a low fever, and a faint headache soon followed. Thinking it was possibly malaria, I told myself if it felt worse by the next day I would go to the clinic. We were scheduled to have a group of 12 teenagers come to our house that night, though, so just to be safe I took a Covid self-test. Not expecting it to amount to anything, I even planned on taking the test and then picking up Elliot from daycare during the 15 minute wait to see the results. However, I didn’t even make it out of the bedroom, let alone the house, before two dark lines showed up on that stick. This was something new. 

I called the doctor to find out what the protocol on the compound is concerning quarantine because it has changed so many times in the last two years. Five days home with the whole household, then test again at the end of the week. We tested the rest of the family and somehow the girls both managed to test positive and the boys were able to avoid it. They must not give us enough hugs and kisses. 

To some extent, my first reaction was relief. I could be done with organized activities for the rest of the day. For the next several days. I imagine some other people feel the same way when faced with forced downtime, even when it is the result of “sickness” (I put that in quotes because neither Patricia nor I feel more than a slight cold, so I don’t count us as actually sick). 

God had answered our prayer and given us rest. 

Sort of. 

We live in a 527-square-foot house with two toddlers. 

Can you see where I am going with this? 

On Monday evening, as Christian and I were calling Patricia’s teacher, his office workers, my librarian, and anyone else who needed to know of our absence this week, we half-jokingly said things like, “Well, we needed to write our newsletter this week anyway. Now we have plenty of time for that!” and “This will be a great time to finally clean out my inbox.” 

I know those of you with young children are shaking your heads and wondering how we could be so naive. In the back of my mind, I also knew we were being too optimistic, but in those moments I chose to let optimism win. 

That lasted about 12 hours. 

Because the children were sleeping. 

We didn’t set any alarms on Tuesday, opting instead to sleep in for good health. Remember, we are “sick”! Tuesday morning felt like a Saturday, the only day of the week we are not rushing to either school or Sunday school as soon as everyone is dressed and at least 50 percent of us have brushed our teeth. When the mid-morning sun poured over our verandah we borrowed the neighbor’s swimming pool and hauled 20 buckets of water from the bathroom to fill it ten inches. Patricia and Elliot were in heaven! It gave them a chance to be outside without running away from the house and gave Christian and I a chance to sit at the table with our laptops in front of us and a good view of our swimsuit-clad kids out the front door. 

Two sentences into whatever I was doing: “Mooooooommy! We want more water!” 

“Okay, just give me two minutes and then I will get you some more.” 

Ten seconds later, this time from child number two: “Mommy, mo’ water!” 

“Hold on, just a minute.” 

Eight seconds later: “Mommy, we want toys!” 

I fetched them some bath toys and several more buckets of water. They squealed in delight and shock when I poured the cold water as a waterfall on their backs. Patricia wriggled in her butterfly swimsuit and Elliot’s eyes grew wide as he decided whether to laugh or cry. 

I sat back down at the table. 

I should have known better. 

“Mommy, Elliot is beating me with the cup!” 

“Elliot, did you beat Patricia with the cup?” 

He nodded and said yes. At least the kid is honest. I told him to apologize, which he did in the adoring manner in which he always does, and they went back to playing and pouring and making the whole verandah wet. 

I typed another sentence. 

“Mommy, may we wash your shoes?” 

“Yes, it’s okay.” 

“Then we need soap.” 

I gave them soap. 

“Where are the scrubbers?” 

I gave them each a scrub brush and then sat down to work. Half a sentence later I heard a scream and crying from outside. Patricia had soap in her eye. 

You get the idea. 

I read once that being a parent is a lot of getting up when you have just sat down. That is one of the most accurate descriptions of parenting I have ever heard. 

Nap time… well, that was an adventure all of its own. Patricia was going to try sleeping on the top bunk for the first time, which meant Elliot wanted to sleep in her bed on the bottom bunk. I didn’t realize until the fourth time he climbed out of bed and asked me to sleep with him that he had probably seen me lie down with Patricia so many times in her bed that he assumed that was a given every time someone slept there. As I lay next to Elliot, watching him suck his thumb and drift off to sleep, Patricia’s voice floated every thirty seconds from above: “Mommy, please sleep with me?” When I told her I would do it another time, I had to force myself out of the room as she slumped over the railing, arms crossed, brows furrowed and lips pursed. I wasn’t sure if an hour or two of sleep would be enough to make her forget and forgive. 

When the children finally fell asleep, Christian and I got in two hours of work. 

It was a fun day, but by 10:00 that night the kitchen counter was piled with dirty dishes and I was exhausted. “I was home literally the WHOLE day,” I told my mom. “How could I not find time to do the dishes?” 

On Wednesday morning, I asked Christian what I could do for him that day. “I would appreciate if you could give me an hour or two do some work on my laptop,” he said. So to keep the kids busy I painted Patricia’s toenails and fingernails, and to keep her still I found We Sing in Sillyville on YouTube and half-watched nostalgically. 

After 15 minutes, they wanted to do something else. We tried swimming again. That also lasted 15 minutes. Elliot beat Patricia so many times on the head that she wanted to get out pretty quickly. He seemed content to play in the water by himself, until he pinched his finger in the handle of a bucket. I rescued him and kissed his finger. 

That happened four more times. 

In the afternoon there were no other kids in the neighborhood, so I told my own they could finally do somersaults in the grass. I grabbed my laptop to sit on the verandah and purge my inbox for the first time in two years while keeping an eye on the kids. 

I opened one email. That’s as far as I got. 

Elliot rushed to my side. “Mommy, sit on my lap?” (He gets possessives mixed up.) We argued for a couple of minutes. He won. I closed the laptop and before I had even laid it aside, his cute little butt was on my lap and he had snuggled into my chest. It was sweet, but it was a problem for his sister. 

“Mommy, I sit your lap?” she asked in her best imitation of Elliot’s voice. 

“No, you can sit next to me,” I said. 

“But I want to sit on your lap also.” 

“Okay, but then you sit on my knees behind Elliot.” She did that. Her brother squirmed and protested. Sometimes there is no winning. 

I still have 516 messages in my inbox. 

Last night I lay beside Patricia as she was going to sleep. Well, as she was trying to go to sleep. Let me rephrase that—as I was trying to get her to try to go to sleep. Elliot lay in his own bed, calling for me, reciting his favorite book, and babbling about this and that. Patricia’s eyes sprung open. “Mommy, Elliot is making noise for me,” she whispered. Then, more loudly, “Elliot, it is time for sleeping!” 

“No!” 

Again, at least it’s easy to tell what he wants. 

Since I can’t leave the house to run, I am using this week to catch up on some yoga. I started a 30-day yoga program in January… of 2021. Today I did day eight. Just as it is taking me a year-and-a-half to finish a month’s worth of yoga, it took two-and-a-half hours to do a half-hour session. Blocks went flying from one room to another while I closed my eyes and tried to hear what the instructor was saying, let alone do what she was telling me to do. 

“I want you to think about—“ Boom!

I will never know what she wanted me to think about because my one-year-old fell on the floor because he thought that was a good moment to try to climb to the top bunk for the first time. 

Then he decided to join me. Elliot sat on my back while I touched my toes and screamed when I sat up and he fell down. He lounged on my legs with my feet as a backrest. He and Patricia tried following the video themselves. After a few fights over the second yoga mat, I made a masking tape line down the middle to make it two. (Patricia wanted to cut it in half.)

Relaxation at its finest. 

Today Christian told me he would attend to the kids so I could get some work done. I couldn’t help but think it was unfair that when it was his turn to respond to every cry and need, one child fell asleep on my lap and the other one sat quietly on the couch looking at pictures. He must be magic. 

As I was doing my devotions this morning while the birds and the family were still dozing, I tried harder than usual to sit and listen to anything God had to say to me. I knew it would be the only quiet moment of the day. “I want you to experience my love for you today,” he said. “I want you to be filled by it. I will love you through your children—through their smiles, laughter, hugs and affection. Their love for you is my love for you.” 

I love being loved by my children. But the reminder that being loved by them is being loved by God… this has become a blessed day indeed. 

Two notes about this post: 

1. Christian is an amazing husband and father and has done so much for and with us. To illustrate that fact, this morning he got up and cleaned the refrigerator before breakfast. Yes, I am bragging. I do not do this parenting thing alone. 

1. I write all of this not to make our experience sound more difficult than that of anyone else. I am sure it isn’t. On the contrary, I expect that most parents, especially parents of young children, can relate on some level and probably have dozens—or hundreds—of such stories to tell.