Most mothers don't meet their baby for the first time in a one-hour visit filled with more questions than answers. I'm not most mothers. Most babies don't start their journey without their safe base. You're not most babies.
These days, when the tantrums are big—when the TV is broken, when there's fecal smearing, screaming, and daily battles over everything from naps to snacks—I think: What the hell? How does anyone do this? How am I supposed to parent day after day knowing everything is on me? It's too hard.
But how is that any different from April 3, 2023? I lived in Amarillo. I wasn't financially, mentally, or otherwise prepared for parenthood. Nevertheless, I showed up.
Before you and I were approved to become a we, I prayed:
Dear God,
Please only allow what is in Messiah's highest good to happen.
Give everyone in this process wisdom.
Keep him safe.
In this season of motherhood, I feel hard-pressed on every side, yet not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair; hunted down, but never abandoned by God; knocked down, but not destroyed. But it's just a season.
Sometimes I forget, as I mother my son, that I am loved by the Father and the Son. That He prays for me. That He absolutely cares about my highest good too.
Maybe, just maybe, in the same way I'm stretched to look at the toddler and remember the baby—to remember my promise—I'm being stretched to look at the woman and remember the little girl. To remember the promises.
