I was picking up run-away marbles that morning and grumbling that I was at risk of losing mine when I thought of her.
Her hallow eyes loomed in my mind as I crawled on my knees and tried to grab those shiny glass orbs scattered all over the living room carpet again.
My four-year-old had been cooking me marble stew since she’d stumbled from bed before sunrise, and my pots and pans were scattered all across the couch. (Um, I mean, the oven with couch- cushion burners.)
There was nothing terrible about the hours ahead- just another day of folding laundry and reading picture books, of carpooling and homework helping and make-believing. But as my preschooler shoved a wooden spoon in my face for the one hundredth time, and begged me to “taste” her stew, I found myself wishing that I were eating real soup with a crisp green salad and a grown-up friend– Someone who would ask me what’s on my mind rather than complain about what’s missing on my head.
Mom, if you are going to eat ROYAL STEW, then you really should be wearing a princess crown. Why don’t you EVER wear a crown, Mom? It would hide your short hair and then nobody would know that you’re not as pretty as Rapunzel…
I was swallowing a sigh when that petite face from long ago interrupted my poor-me reverie and made my heart lurch silent and sad.
I could hear her wry laugh and see her lifeless eyes as I battled the subtle gray shroud that was slowly wrapping itself around my heart despite the brilliant blue of dawn.
A decade had passed since we’d met, but I still remembered how she looked that day–like she was a thousand miles from where we stood, yet chained to the ground by those little fingers that clung to her knees.
I didn’t know her name or her address. I had no idea of her age. But I’d never forgotten the story she shared after a MOPS meeting back when I was just a mom of two tow-headed preschoolers…
I’d spoken that morning to a room crammed with young women, and I’d been delighted when those moms had lined up to continue our conversation long after I’d uttered the closing prayer.
She’d stood patiently at the end of the snaking queue while her peers had captured my attention with their animated stories and upbeat chatter. And when she’d finally reached my side, I’d stroked the soft head of the infant curled in the pinstriped snuggly strapped to her middle, and I’d offered a high-five to the cranky toddler who was pumping her arm up and down like a farmer securing a drink from an old fashioned water spigot.
A preschooler in a sparkly tutu had glided in circles around us, demanding that her mommy watch as she spun and twirled to imagined music. With one eye on her budding ballerina and another fixed on me, the young mom had spilled her trying tale, her words dripping from a deep place of melancholy as tears drizzled in a quiet stream down her cheeks.
She’d told of her decade-long battle with infertility, of pain and hopelessness, exasperation and anger. She’d spoken of babies lost too early and the scars left on her heart. And she’d talked about finally giving up, about packing away her maternity clothes and baby blankets and resigning herself to a life without children.
And then, after she’d dropped her dreams at the thrift store along with that garbage bag filled with baby toys, when she’d sold the crib and had gone back to school for another degree, the One who had seemed un-hearing, un-caring, unable had finally planted life in her womb.
In her own loaves-and-fishes miracle, she’d carried life to full term beneath her heart three times over during the course of the next five years.
When her story was done, I’d reached for her hand and commented on God’s faithfulness. But her empty eyes had failed to reflect my awe.
Instead, she’d just cast a defeated glance at the baby on her bosom and confessed with a choking chuckle, “Before I had kids, all I did was dream of the day when I would finally be a mom. And now all I do is dream of the day when my baby will finally go to kindergarten.”
My twenty-nine-year-old heart had ached and my mouth had grown dry. And, quite honestly, I hadn’t known what to say.
The pithy stories I’d shared and the cheerleader-style-of inspiration I’d offered that morning suddenly felt paltry and small in light of the vulnerable truth that hung between us.
I’d leaned down and kissed her baby and asked if I could pray.
For her.
For her children.
For all of us stumbling through life too tired or numb to celebrate the answers to our prayers.
She’d shrugged her shoulders as if she didn’t care one way or another, and I’d accepted the gesture as a yes. I’d placed my hands on top of that sweet mama’s head and had begged the Lord to breathe fresh passion and purpose into her withering soul, to carry her in His hands as she carried His gifts in hers.
Then, I’d silently vowed that I would not be a mother who spends this fleeting season of life just waiting for my last child to go to kindergarten. Of course, I had no idea then just how difficult it would be to keep that vow.
I didn’t know then that three kids later and many years down the road, there would be mornings when I’d just want to stay in bed instead of slurping marble stew.
I didn’t realize then that the monotony of motherhood could stun a soul, that the fear of falling short could paralyze a woman’s joy.
In my arrogance, I couldn’t see the reflection of my own heart in the shadow of her story. But on that morning when her face intruded my melancholy on the couch, I found myself wondering how many days I’d unknowingly echoed her dirge.
How many times had I trudged through the present moment entertaining dreams of a better tomorrow?
How many hours had I surrendered to the quiet dread in my heart rather than marveling at the mercy streaks beyond my window?
My little chef was adding Legos to her marble stew and demanding an answer to her question.
Mom, is your soup too hot? Or is it too cold?
Her eyes sparkled with the sheer joy of childhood.
I offered my little girl a dramatic slurp and realized this as I flashed my early riser a silly smile: A mom can’t always trust her feelings.
Our wayward emotions can limit our vision. Our weary hearts can blind us to our blessings.
The only way to rightly see the gifts of today is to peer at the present through the lens of the Word.
Without it, our sight is warped by the fog of the familiar; our eyes clouded by the haze of the daily grind.
My daughter had moved from the couch to the kitchen, and I could hear her humming a praise song under her breath as she rattled those marbles with a metal serving spoon.
I rose from the couch and headed for the stairs that lead to the laundry room. But the noisy rattle of a steel pan clanking on the hardwood floor stopped me in my steps just in time to hear the chaotic clatter of marbles rolling wild.
Oh, no, Mommy! I spilled your soup. I was just trying to heat it up in the microwave….…
And so I said it in faith, heart fixed on my Savior who brings new mercies each morning–
This is the day that the Lord has made. I will rejoice and be glad in it. (Psalm 118:24)
And as I bent low to gather those shiny marbles off the kitchen floor, I invited the One who reigns on High to give me eyes to see the lavish gift of another day in the trenches of motherhood.
Will you share with us your thoughts of hope for struggling mothers? How do you find a state of gratitude in the monotony of motherhood?
- Ch…ch…ch…CHANGES Are Coming in 2017 for TMI - December 27, 2016
- What New Thing Are You Ready to See God Do in Your Life in 2017? - December 26, 2016
- Heaviness and Newness - December 23, 2016
