Upstairs, I have an old photograph, in which I am cradling our newborn. We are studying each other, our profiles etched, two upturned noses kept frozen in time, mother and son. My face achingly young, his softly brand new.
I am smiling from the shadows, dressed in my husband’s button-down shirt, the lighting poor, our camera cheap.
That old striped Oxford was my wardrobe extraordinaire in postpartum days, soft, loose. I pined for comfort as motherhood had risen to jolt, ushering in oceanic feelings, all-consuming tides. The fervent motions continued long after labor and delivery, a revolving cycle of nursing, changing, rocking, swaying, soothing, singing, crying. My muscles whimpered tender from hefting seven deliciously-scented pounds of miracle upon my shoulder.
It was 1996 and we lived humbly, with few distractions. No extra money, no internet, no cell phones. Come to think of it, no email. In hindsight, such simplicity proved priceless. My feet and mind were planted on terra firma as I pushed the stroller around our apartment and whispered to my little Caleb descriptions of everything I saw, heard, felt, touched, and tasted.
Puffy white clouds, quacking mallards, gentle breezes, scorching sun, soft blanket, tart lemonade, minty gum, I love you, I love you, I love you.
As I spoke my affection, I also begged him to sleep–the one thing he clearly did not prefer. We circled around the lake, returning home. I gentled him in the wind-up swing, cranking that contraption to a fare-thee-well, clockwise, knowing that I had precisely nineteen minutes until it would slow and stop, waking him again.
If I hurried I could fluff the pillows, spritz the bathroom mirrors, fold the laundry, and rush a steaming shower.
Most days, however, I slid into my rocking chair, gazing proudly at our stunning little bundle of sweetness.
I was now a mother.
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Motherhood displaced my heart, which now danced and hovered outside my body.
It pulsed hard, following our little man everywhere, our baby who was soon cooing, sitting, teething, crawling, and talking. Mornings, he reached his pudgy arms skyward, calling Mama, as I plucked him from the crib into my arms, pajamas all snug.
Good morning, Bugaboo.
I nuzzled the soft spot on his neck with my nose, before kissing it repeatedly as he giggled, his small fists tangled up in my hair.
My heart, my world.
Less than two years after becoming a mother, I shook my husband’s arm. It was nearly midnight and time to drive to the hospital once again, the pains bearing down, sweeping my breath away.
Between contractions, I worried. How could I ever love another baby as much as our Caleb?
Treason!
Such heavy thoughts brought tears to my eyes.
All fear vanished by lunchtime the following day. I had been proven wonderfully wrong. The moment our second son was born, and my husband held him high, my heart lept, and doubled in size.
I was smitten as I cradled him, inhaling his newborn scent. Counting his fingers and studying his long eyelashes spun me into a sea of bliss. In the years to come, I fell hard in love two more times, with the birth of our third son and then our daughter. The togetherness of us, our familial love and laughter, was more delightful than I ever dreamed.
My heart was an inferno, on fire, and had now quadrupled in size. God had entrusted me with these four beauties, little image bearers with souls that would never die. Motherhood was my ache, my dream, a hard work soaked with gravity and laced in beauty, a serious endeavor to be cradled, gently.
Those early years of motherhood were earthy. Four children to nurture, teach, discipline, and love. Full days of wiping sticky hands and jellied tables, mountains of laundry to smooth and fold, bandaids to apply, fevers to soothe, hugs and kisses, and reams of books to read aloud. It was board games and races and hide-and-seek. Sheer physical exhaustion come nighttime, waking early to do it all over again.
Oh, how I loved the slow, long, steady life of motherhood. Tangible work, gritty and good and meaningful, fingernails caked with dirt, sweat, and love.
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Winds of change arrived repeatedly, blowing in breezes and occasional tempests. The moment my heart had grown accustomed to the earthiness of my calling, the seasons swelled and changed, leaving me to reach for a windbreaker, rain jacket, hoodie, or heavy winter coat.
One quotidian day I realized our cradles and high chairs and booster seats and diaper bags were gone. My children were growing up with new horizons and friendships and weighty decisions, joyous victories filled with laughter, and sometimes broken hearts and tattered dreams. There were championship games and recitals, driving tests and college applications, goodbyes and graduations, engagements and weddings, moving trucks and missionary journeys.
So many goodbyes over and over and over. Changes that left me breathless.
And then the evening arrived when I set our dining room table pretty for two. Our new normal. My heart tiptoed about and then broke just a little as my husband and I held hands, bowed our heads, and said grace, our forks clinking against our plates, breaking the hush.
It’s hard, isn’t it? he said, his eyes filling.
Later, I washed the dishes as he took out the trash.
My hands scrubbed slowly, and gently as I prayed.
It was a healing balm, easing the ache a little, just me before my God, as I remembered his promises throughout Scripture. He had chosen to make me a mother and as long as I had breath, my work was not finished.
Earth, wind, and fire.
The fire?
Oh, the fire.
It burns steady, strong, and hot. Such unconditional love, my prayers rising. I am a house-on-fire, one average, middle-aged mother, on bended knee.
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Last week I stood on our back porched and for the better part of an hour watched a squirrel building a nest–a drey it is called–out of leaves and twigs. She crawled to the end of a limb, bit off a sliver of a leafy branch, ran down to the grassy earth, picked it up in her teeth, and raced to the highest of heights, fussing and building, moving twigs and leaves every which way.
Her diligence and patience paid off. I shielded my eyes against the sun and imagined a handful of baby squirrels mewing, tucked safely in the crook of the massive tree, in the nest the mother had labored to build.
They would be warm and safe for a time, but soon Mama Squirrel would release them to the earth, teaching them to hunt and forage and in time, build their own nests.
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My hands no longer rock the cradle, smooth back sheets, or prepare my children’s meals. (How I miss my sous chefs!) But the joy of motherhood carries on through every conversation, phone call, text, and gathering. Caleb, Jacob, Marcus, and Lauren are priceless gifts.
During the decades I spent raising our children, God was raising me. Motherhood has shaped and refined me, drawing me close to the heart of my Heavenly Father.
Thank you, God, for such undeserved treasures.
Behold, children are a heritage from the LORD, the fruit of the womb a reward.
Psalm 127:3
The Palest Ink 