We did the weekend much the same as any other.
Hardy breakfasts.
Park, picnic, and play.
Longs naps.
A movie.
Church.
More long naps.
Kite flying.
Dinner at Castlewood.
My favorite gifts are time and adventure. W gave me both. He discovered the new park that he took us to. And on Sunday during nap time, made us some decaf in the french press and we each enjoyed a cup at the table together. That meant uninterrupted time during daylight hours to talk and hang out. Truly a major feat these days. I savored it that much more.
Dinner at Castlewood was amazing, of course. I'm convinced my parents could open up a restaurant and do well.
Yes. Still in shock and awe that I have a daughter now. And trying with all my might to soak up every drop-- during those daily few seconds of alone time together. ;)
If you told me in college that I'd have three little ones before I turned thirty, I would have laughed in your face. I was so doubtful back then if I even was Mama-material. {heck, I still have my doubts} Or if I even wanted to have kids.
And now I have these three and still not wholly convinced we're complete. I will probably only see just how crazy we are-- to have this many under four years-- several years from now. Because it really is a circus.
But when this really hard season is over, I'm sure I will cry. And long for the way Theo giggles and gives his sassy look. How Vesper sticks her tongue out every time she smiles. How Ezra follows me around the house so he has someone to keep him company.
I can only hope and pray that I do right by them and by He who entrusted them into my care.
Mamahood has been an unexpected delight. I love being able to be a kid with them. To play outside. To frolic and sing and dance. To be explorers and adventurers. And they still think I'm cool.
Mamahood has also been an unexpected button-pusher. It pushes my selfish button. My impatience. My entitlement. My anger. My grumbling and ungrateful heart button. I'm astonished at how quickly this role brings all those dark hidden places, some that you didn't know were there, to light. Maybe because I had so many so fast, my darkness comes to light at lightening speed?! I don't think I've ever had to apologize in such concentration before becoming a mother. Nor wondered if I'm making any process in these areas. Wondering if He could work more painlessly on these areas.
And that's what makes this job so hard. The constant. The repetition. The friction of being with someone all day, everyday. The serving. The pouring out. Over and over and over again. Even when you think there's no more of yourself to give. Even when you don't want to give.
My best girlfriend has been such an encouragement in this walk recently. She's one of those women who you see and think "that's what I want to be like." Wisdom, character, a love for the Lord and a secure peace that just oozes out of her being. Here are some things she's shared with me that have helped during my low moments.
It's wise to look for ways to care for yourself, not in a selfish way, but just a responsible way. At the same time, this is where God has you...In the trenches and He desires to show you amazingly beautiful things that you wouldn't see in the light. It's only too easy to look at this week and think the cure is caring for you more but that's not the cure. The only cure is learning to fall in His grace for each moment. I'm totally learning this along side you, sister.
I'm praying for you that today you would lean firmly into Him for strength and the grace to respond to each small fire with great love. Can you carve out a few minutes to read His word? Praise music? That always re-directs my heart and supplies me with grace for the moment.
Try to remember every moment with your kids, every sacrifice, every time you rock a screaming child can ALL be an act of worship. It's been my prayer lately that God would transform my responses from irritable and sharp to recognizing the time and space is where He has me for a purpose to extend His grace and love to those around me. {husband included!}
I feel so blessed to have several wise Mamas to mama me when I need it. I think every young and old Mama needs at least one. And not just with practical things like the best stroller or tactics for getting them to go to sleep, but heart issues too. Matters of deep significance and long standing effects.
And so, I leave it at this. This perfect, eloquent way of what my heart longs to remember when I want to stop pouring. When my buttons are pressed too hard. When all three need something at the exact same moment. When my head is ringing from the day's demands.
This.
Feathers Plucked for The Nest...
The children press in close too, for a better look at Alexander Max Koester’s painting Ducks, and I read aloud the caption below the brushes of color.
“Mother ducks pick feathers from their chests to line their nests.”
I pause and the children gaze thoughtfully at a clutch of plump white, blizzard of feathers fallen down. But it’s those words that mesmerize me: “pick feathers from their chests, to line their nests.”
Eyes fixed on a duck breast puffed, mother plunging beak in deep, I question wondering self: “How else did you think nests were lined?”
With leftovers. With the discarded, the molted, the not-so-necessary feathers. I thought mother ducks picked feathers up from what was laying about, scraps, lining nests with what simply could be mustered after the fact.
But no. (Is that only the way of other mothers?) No, a mother duck plucks each feather out from the heart of her bosom, warm and soft. She lines the nest with bits of herself. The best of her, from the deep spots. She cups her young in her sacrifice.
Days later, I am scrubbing out the arches of muffin tins after breakfast, the clock ticking insufferably loud in my ears. Children need books and learning, and I’m tuned for the expected chime of the doorbell, a service personnel’s scheduled visit. And the words rise near to the surface, “I don’t have time for this! No muffins tomorrow morning!”
Pluck.
The words sharply sink. And I, learning, line this nest with a feather. Not a leftover. But one decidedly plucked. The service man meets me with muffin tins still in the sink, and a circle of happy young. Whose tummies next morning fill with another batch of muffins.
The sun’s perfect globe of glow nears the horizon when boys, glint in eyes, recalibrate vacuum cleaner to fire socks. Weary, I have food to find, laundry awaiting escort, math sheets to mark. They fire.
And I Pluck.
Bellies jiggle, peals of giggles, as old mother chases after future men, wrestling them down, tying them up in tickles. We warm here in laughter. It feels good, wild and alive. So again they fire, and again I pluck, and we pile high, one atop the other, nesting down into sacrifice, soft and small.
Some feathers for this nest have hurt, pain of the plucking lingering long. But why speak of the details? And was it really sacrifice, or just this too-tender skin? It’s done, it was necessary, it was for something better. Some nights, when all sleep, I feel along the hidden bald patches.
There are times, too many, when they call, “Read me a story?” “Wanna play a game with me?” “Can you come help me?”
And this mother refuses to pluck. Something, some task, someone (me?), rates as more pressing, more important. I deem the nest acceptable. Then comes the pecking, the scratching, the squawking. With lining wearing thin, the nest chafes hard. We hurt and cry. Nests need feathers deep.
Someone must pluck.
When will I learn that down sacrificed settles and soothes? For scraps won’t suffice. Snippets of time, leftover me, a trinket, a diversion, tossed. Mother ducks don’t line nests with feathers, dirty and trampled, the molted and unnecessary. Why would I? Nests need feathers fresh, warm with mother’s life.
Night descends and calls children to dreams. I lead them to their gate, arms and legs under quilts worn from the ride. I read stories, stroke hair, say prayers. Prayers to Him who plucked hard from His own heart. A sacrifice, staggering and true, for love of His very own. We learn love from His laid down.
Tired heads nestle into pillows, pillows of down.
On feathers plucked, we rest.
