My daughter’s body is curled on my chest, hot with fever. She is 18 months old, just discovering the joy of running everywhere, but this week her little legs lay still. She opens her eyes some, vaguely aware that Dory is getting lost for the 18th time on the blue of the television screen.
Read moreFeed Me
Can a baby be addicted to nursing?
I wonder. My daughter, my first child, is a few weeks old and gaining weight steadily. And it’s no wonder: she eats, she sleeps, and she cries.
Read moreWaiting in the Darkness
We are scheduled for an 11 pm induction.
The house is dark and quiet, and somehow feels more hollow with my daughter sleeping at her grandmother’s instead of her little bed. My belly aches
Read moreI Will Give You Rest
There will be no nap today.
The realization hangs heavy around my chest as I watch my plans evaporate. Some days, I’m ready to embrace the opportunity.
Read moreAn Empty House
I love the quiet, the stillness before the sun rises and little feet patter down the hall. This time is my gift to myself and to God. It is the time when the coffee is still hot
Read moreGod in the Kitchen Sink
This house will never be clean again. Despite the unlikelihood of this statement, I know it to be true. I’m drowning in a sea of toys and laundry, and if I am to take Marie Kondo’s advice, it’s all going in the trash because none of it is sparking any joy.
Read moreTalitha Koum
New life is waking up all around me. The first spring flowers yawn open. The bees pay a visit. A pink-headed hummingbird swoops down only to pause, suspended and in motion, so close I can see its feathers glisten. The green of seedlings planted weeks ago peek up from the blackness around them. All reminders of this simple fact: winter doesn't last forever.
Read moreWailing for Waffles
My one-year-old eats a waffle for breakfast every morning. Despite that I have never failed to feed him, he inevitably wails for the entire two minutes it takes to pop up from the toaster. I sing and dance, trying to distract him. I explain that the waffle needs to cook. Nothing helps; the waiting is too painful.
Read moreMultiply Me
When there’s not enough of you to go around
Read morePrayer: 3 Lessons from a 3-Year-Old
Three moments with my little one that taught me about the nature of God
Read morePraying or Wishing?
I’ve been hoarding my desires in prayer, bringing to the light only those things that I want most - protection from the virus, safe delivery of this baby, and not to be separated from him or my husband. I’ve prioritized these requests, and hidden away everything else.
Read moreChoosing Trust Over Fear
This past weekend, I let fear grip me.
For the most part, following the stay-at-home order has meant small sacrifices for us. We miss seeing friends and family, but have loved connecting in other ways.
Read moreMotherhood, Or Why I'm Still in My Pajamas
It's been one of those mornings. Actually, it's the afternoon now, so I guess it started out as just a morning but it got bold as it gained strength and it's threatening to take over the whole day.
Read moreLove in a Pile of Shoes
All of my shoes have been removed from my closet. They now sit in a pile at the foot of bed. My toddler, shoe relocation engineer, beams up at me with pride, handing me the last remaining shoe.
And I’m surprised by what I feel. Not frustration about the mess, or preoccupation with the burden of bending my 7-months-pregnant self over to put them all back again. No, this morning grace whispers in my ear…
Read moreThe Bump as Invitation
Any woman who’s ever been visibly pregnant knows that her baby bump is an invitation. Whether she likes it or not, friends and strangers alike regard the bump as a signal. It alters the laws of social interaction, eliminating the concept of personal space surrounding the protruding area. The bump also elicits a flood of commentary on one’s personal appearance, amount of weight gain, parenting preferences, and – my personal favorite – unsolicited delivery horror stories.
Read moreWhat I've Learned in Becoming a Stay-at-Home Mom
It was the middle of the night when I drove myself to the emergency room. My lungs were burning and I had coughed up a bit of blood. I tried to keep myself calm, to avoid panicking prematurely. If it was what I thought it was, there was a very good chance that I could die.
I don’t want to leave this all behind, I prayed, but if tonight is the end, please bring me home.
Read moreMy Daily Bread
I’m always perplexed when I see people at concerts trying to film the experience. What we can capture on our phones won’t look or sound all that great – certainly not as great as the recorded version or professional photos we could look up later. Really, the purpose of being at a concert is just that: being there. Feeling the music vibrate through you, being among the crowd of fans, enjoying proximity to someone whose talent you admire. None of what is great about a concert can be captured by our devices. In fact, trying to do so actually places distance between us and the experience we seek to capture.
Read moreThis Is My Body
“This is my body, given up for you.”
Morning sickness. Heartburn. Backache. Sciatica. Weight gain. Labor. Stretch marks. Nursing. Everything I am, given for you. Sleepless nights, given for you. Anxiety, worry, arms holding you all night in illness. Every waking moment, given for you.
My thoughts are not my own any more. My time is not my own. And my body is beyond the recognition of my childless self. Then again, so am I.
Read moreThe Temptation of the Checklist
Pay attention. Soon, these days will be no more.
It’s easy to fall into the trap of surveying all that is left undone, and think: failure. Dirty dishes, laundry wrinkling in the dryer, emails to be answered. It’s easy to fall prey to the lure of the checklist: each checkmark, validation. The more checkmarks, the better – the better job I’m doing, the better mother I am. The better I am.
Read moreA Prayer for "Good Girls"
I am, and always have been, a good girl. I don’t break the rules. I arrive prepared. I don’t make trouble. I earn everyone’s affection, including the Lord’s (at least I like to think I do).
When I imagine myself in the story of the prodigal son, I am the older brother – the brother who is glad when his good-for-nothing sibling leaves home because it makes him look so much better by comparison.
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