postpartum anxiety: my story

The transition from two children to three was, for me, the easiest of all.

This is what I tell people, and in a lot of senses it’s true. I was already 100% buried in chaos with my two older toddler girls, so the addition of one newborn boy just didn’t register a lot of overwhelm. I usually compare it to throwing a bucket of water into the ocean. You just don’t notice the level rise at all. And then there was Brian. He was as chill as babies come: a self-soother from the beginning, with a calming vibe that I can’t quite explain.

But then there’s the other side of the birth of Brian.

I’ve struggled with depression on and off throughout my adult life, so I had been on guard, especially after my firstborn, against postpartum depression. I was pleasantly surprised after my first when it wasn’t a problem as it had been for so many of my friends, nor was it an issue when I had my second less than a year and a half later. By my third, I figured I had dodged  the PPD bullet and I would be fine.

I was sort of right. There were no classic depression symptoms, but almost immediately following his birth, I just felt… activated. All the time. I’m Highly Sensitive (I feel stupid capitalizing that, but it really is a thing) so I’m familiar enough with the sensory overwhelm that leads to mental and emotional chaos, but this was all. the. time. My skin felt tingly. My heart raced. My scalp felt weird. my arms felt hot. My stomach wasn’t right. The physical anxiety symptoms put my brain on the hunt for rational explanations for my discomfort. There were none, except the three small people and one other big person who lived in my house. I felt CRAZY. I became irritable. I couldn’t sleep.

Mamas- you know the newborn phase, right? I hadn’t slept in six months because pregnancy is lame. I caused expensive damage to more than one car because I was so chronically exhausted that my brain refused to function, but still I had to go places and do things. Now I’ve had the baby and, while sleep is interrupted, my body is supposed to be able to take advantage of the opportunities I have, right? Except instead of sleeping, I was laying awake feeling nothing but irritation for being awake. My body refused to to settle down and rest.

The sleep deprivation fed into irritability and substandard mothering and generally crappy days. Here I have three children I adore, a husband who is absolutely God’s best gift to me, and anxiety sucking every last particle of joy from it all.

When I recognized the problem, I made the call without any further thought. I asked to talk to a midwife and the words tumbled out. “The anxiety is debilitating and sucking all the fun out of my otherwise awesome life. I don’t have time or margin for this. I need to be on something. I’ve taken Celexa for depression before, so if that’s a reasonable SSRI for breastfeeding, I know it works for my body. I even have some from four years ago that I can start taking now…”

Julie didn’t want me to take the expired meds, but got me in for a quick consult, checked that I was getting therapy (they’re most effective in combination, but I was in the middle of some therapy for something else already, so it was covered) and wrote me a prescription. I texted my husband to let him know what was going on—he certainly knew something was wrong, but I don’t think either of us knew precisely what until then, and I was so busy fixing it that I didn’t really loop him in until it was more or less managed. He texted me back something like, “I think that’s really courageous. I’m glad you’re getting help.” Bless him. I started to feel better before very long at all, because, in my body, this med works on anxiety way faster than it worked on depression.

In a lot of ways, I feel like my case, because of how suddenly and severely it hit me, wound up being a lot milder than so many women experience. I’m grateful that I saw it and got help for it within just a few weeks. I’m grateful I’d dealt with (and been medicated for) depression already, so I didn’t have to break through any weirdness about mental illness this time.

The point is this: you don’t have to tough it out. You get one shot at this newborn and I don’t want your memories of this time to be a blur of irritation and or simmering rage. If your body and brain feel wrong, talk to somebody. You’re not weird, and you’re certainly not the first mama your provider has seen who needs some support while all the hormones and everything get back into alignment. If you’re worried about the medication and effects on a breastfeeding baby, please stop. the effects are negligible and are certainly outweighed by the benefit of having a mama who is present and emotionally able to engage in the work of mothering.

If you have been toughing it out, please don’t beat yourself up. You’re not a bad mom. You’re doing your best, and you’ll both recover, and still… please talk to somebody. It’s worth it. Promise. You have enough going on without adding problems with brain chemistry to the mix—get that one sorted out.

And for the bunch of people who are going to tell me (and maybe you) to find more natural ways to handle this or pray more or meditate to fix it, please stop. If you want to try things before you try medication, that’s awesome. If it works for you and you want to recommend it to a struggling friend? Go for it. But do not shame mamas out of getting the help that they need. Sadness and worry can be spiritual or lifestyle problems. I get it. But clinical anxiety and depression are legitimate physical and chemical ones, so please, please let those of us dealing with them get the medical attention required for our actual problems. Deal? Cool.

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my very first seven-year-old

Happy birthday, sweetie.

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(image credit: Sarah Lewis Photography)

You’re growing up so well. I feel like you’re right on the line between a little girl and a big one. I’m sure part of this feeling is simply that you’re first. You’ve been the one that made me a mama, and then the one that made me the mama of a toddler and a preschooler and now a seven-year-old, so you always feel SO BIG. But that’s not all of it. Your heart and your mind are developing thoughts and words and feelings around big-people concepts in ways that you haven’t before. I’m not entirely sure how this happened; I only know that I’m not quite ready.

Last year, I watched you as you struggled with things I have wrestled with; this year, I am watching you fight with things I am wrestling. I was not prepared.


This birthday is the first I am truly nervous about. Not so much because you’re seven… it’s the day itself. This year, I’m blowing off parties, hoping to celebrate you in ways that allow me to be much more present and engaged in the day, and you’re really not sure how to deal. You keep telling me how boring it is that you’re not getting a party and how mad you are that you’re going to get fewer presents. It’s possible we won’t do it this way for you every year. Maybe this is a huge flop. But I so want you to learn the art of celebrating even in the quiet. I see your expectations and they just are not ones I can meet. (An Apple Watch and $200? Uh…) I want you to be happy and feel so very loved on your birthday, but with or without a big to-do (well, as big as my parties get, which is to say, not very big) I’m not entirely sure your happiness is up to me—it’s a matter of your attitude and expectations. I am trying to talk you through all of this, but I know in the deepest part of my gut and my memory: this lesson isn’t learned by listening to your mother. I remember these birthdays growing up where all my expectations (spoken or otherwise) were more than anyone could have fulfilled and I spent the day feeling sad and unloved. It’s hard for me to see this experience coming toward you, knowing that despite my best efforts and hopes, there’s not a lot I can do to teach you this lesson the easy way. It’s hard knowing I’m going to let you down today.

It’s hard to realize that I cannot be responsible for your happiness.

But then I remember our talk the other night. You told me, “I feel so small. I’m never good enough. I try to be kind to Katherine and Brian and they just ask and ask and it’s never enough for them. I try to be kind to Lilly, and she just shrieks at me.”

“I know this feeling,” I told you. “I know ‘never enough’ and I know ‘I can’t make them happy.'” The never enough is inside me. I have spent all of my years finding my worth in my usefulness, when the things I do were only ever meant to come out of who I am, not define it. I see this in you and I’m sorry. I still fight it, but I want you to know that you are lovely. You are fearfully and wonderfully made and so very loved. Your Daddy and I love you more than you can imagine (and you’re an incredibly good imaginer!) and God loves you so much more than we do. Your worth was clear to us before you ever did anything.

The can’t make them happy lives in the others. You can’t make Katherine or me or anybody else happy, at least not long-term, because her happiness is not your job. Watching you try to make me happy, especially on my hard days, is simultaneously the most heartwarming and heartbreaking thing. I love your compassion for others—that you want to make them happy—but then I see you assessing your value in your ability to pull it off, and you will come up short. Not because you’re not good enough, but because this job was never yours to do in the first place. We need to deal with our own expectations and insecurities and your job is simply to be kind and do right, not to make me or anybody else happy.


And here we are, with me struggling with my inability to make you happy for your birthday because I can’t do all the things exactly as you hope (and, truth be told, it wouldn’t be good for you if I did) and you struggling with your smallness and inability to make me and your siblings happy.

Baby, it’s going to be okay. Today might be tough as your expectations and reality collide. The story you’re probably going to tell yourself is that I don’t love you enough to do the things you want. Worse, that if you were somehow better—more worthy—I would love you enough to do those things. I know this because you’ve said as much and also because I’ve lived it countless times.

I will speak truth to your big, 7-year-old heart. It will take time for you to believe me—longer, likely years, before it sticks. (I’m still fighting this battle.) Eventually totes*, you will learn to recognize truth and speak it to your own heart and your own stories. It’s a really important part of growing up. I’ll show you how.

I love you, Jenna girl. You are such an incredible delight to my heart and a tool Jesus uses constantly to make me more like Him. I love watching you grow.


*for those of you listening in, “eventually totes” is a thing that Brian started saying a few months ago (“Brian, when do I get to go to bed?” “Eventually totes! Hahahahaha!”) It cracks us all up, and has become part of our family’s vernacular, so a lot of our “eventuallys” get followed by “totes.”

two kinds of excellent friends

I’ve spent a lot of time lately trying to figure out how to parent a particular one of my children. I beg for wisdom from the One who gives it many times a day, and I look for perspective and ideas from other mamas who might be able to give it. I had a couple of those conversations the other week.

Conversation One

I have a dear friend for many, many years. She has lots of training and experience in the stage that my kid is currently in and has a similarly challenging one the same age.

She’s also very different from me. Her personality and parenting style are very different, so I figured she might have some thoughts that I hadn’t come up with yet.

I was correct. But despite the fact that she was kind throughout the conversation and has been for me for most of my life and wasn’t judgy in the least, so many of the things she said hit my ears and my heart as you are doing it wrong. Like really, really wrong. There were a lot of really constructive ideas about the big, overarching issues and some interesting strategies to try and resources to look at, but, because of where my heart was and how we communicate differently, it was a couple hours of shame triggers. There were ugly crying and hiccups.

Conversation Two

I have  a newish friend. Her personality and parenting style are very similar to mine. She has lots of kids, most of them older than mine. One of those had issues very similar to the ones we’re facing and they’re coming out the other side.

She assured me that my baby is going to be okay. She gave me some ideas that worked for her with hers, and kind of a timeline for when things might start to look up. She reminded me that these challenging ones remind us that we can’t do this without Jesus, whether the kids are challenging or compliant.

I need them both.

Yes, the first conversation was harder. I imagine there will be some who encourage me to disregard her input because of how difficult the talk was. But that friendship is dear to me, and the difference in perspectives is valuable to us both. I don’t want to live in an echo chamber… so we sharpen each other. Also, there’s something valuable about somebody who doesn’t think or feel the same as me but loves me dearly despite the differences.

And the second conversation was a balm that helped me see that I will be okay—my kid will be okay—even though I am me, with my limitations and faults. I will try to do right by my little girl and I will try to help her using every resource I can find, whether it’s from somebody like me or not, but Jesus gave her to me and he equipped me accordingly.

I’m so grateful for these kind and very different women. I’m a better mama for their input, especially in combination. One challenges and one heals, and they’re both beautiful.

to the mama with two in diapers

Hey, mama. I see you. I know this isn’t easy.

Folks always look at you in pity when they realize you have two in diapers, but they never really mention that the diapers are seriously the least of the struggles.

I’ve been there. I’m not sure how your transition to motherhood was, but mine was uncommonly easy. “Everyone told me this would be so hard, but it’s really… not bad. Yay, me! I’m awesome at this motherhood thing!” (It’s fine. You can punch me in the throat if you want to.) 

But within 48 hours of the birth of the first, my husband wanted to know when we were going to have another awesome baby. It took me a couple months to come around to the idea, but we decided to go ahead and let the next one happen whenever it happened. (After all, I’m awesome at this!) That’s how I ended up with a newborn and a small toddler and my world and self crumbling down around me.

The needs are incessant. One baby took all my time, but I was able to stay pretty well on top of her needs. With a second newborn came the realization that 1.) the newborn stage is way less demanding than the toddler stage and 2.) it doesn’t matter because there’s only one me and I can’t possibly do all of this, no matter how easy the little one seems.

I don’t remember a lot about Katherine’s first year except this one crystal clear moment: Katherine was about eight weeks old. Jenna was roughly 19 months. We’d gone out shopping in the morning, but (as is typical) we didn’t leave as early as I’d wanted, and everything just took longer than I’d hoped. By the time we were driving home, two babies (and one mama) were losing it. We were all hangry and in need of a nap. I put my toddler on my left hip, the baby in her car seat in the crook of my right arm, diaper bag over my shoulder, and all the grocery bags clenched tightly in my hands and hauled the wailing children (and everything else) up the flight and a half of stairs to my living room. Katherine came out of the car seat and got propped in the recliner; I put Jenna in her high chair. I looked from crying Jenna to shrieking Katherine to all the grocery bags on the floor around my feet. I was hungry to the point of feeling ill, but they needed to eat, too. The noise was deafening and I couldn’t quite decide what my next step was.

One need at a time.

I don’t know why this was such a revelation, but their needs collided with my limitations in this one moment of absolute certainty: we all have needs and I can meet exactly one at a time and I will keep doing that until everyone is okay.

This concept basically sums up that whole year. I was tired and my house was noisy, but if I could just keep doing this, we were going to make it.

It gets easier.

I wouldn’t have believed you if you’d told me then, but I really like having the first two so close. I like it so much, in fact, that I waited a beat and then had a second pair a couple years later. I found myself again with a newborn and a toddler last year, along with (then) 4- and 5-year-old girls.

I wasn’t as bleary this last year as I was Katherine’s first year. I am more relaxed and happy  and successful now than I was then, even though I find myself in basically the same situation, but with a pair of strong-willed, homeschooling kindergarteners. I’m sure it’s partly having kids big enough to be helpful (sometimes), partly my own substantially lower standards, partly better systems borne out of necessity, and mostly a lot of grace, but I wanted to tell you it really does get better.

When I had two, I remember looking around at moms of three and four and more, wondering, “What the crap is my problem?!? She has herself together and she has WAY more kids than I do! Why can’t I get my stuff figured out?!?” I’m realizing now that it may just be part of the process. Yes, she had more children than I did. But also, she’d had a few more years to figure herself out. I used to think if I could just get it together, my life could be as (relatively) calm as hers, but I’d neglected to consider her messy middle part. I was looking at seasoned mamas and wondering why I couldn’t manage, but I was only a year and a half in. (Not that I’d say I have it all together NOW- I’m still kind of a mess. But it’s definitely less stressful now.)

It takes time, friend. It’s going to be okay. This season is dizzying and exhausting and beautiful and messy, but it really does get better. Give yourself grace and time to figure it out.

(Also, it’s fine to leave the kids in their car seats while you haul groceries into the house. Really.) 

Happy Brian! (Turning three.)

Hey, dude.

You’re three today! Happy Brian! I love you to teeny, tiny, smoochable pieces. From your big brown eyes to your kiss-me cheeks to your sweet grin and your crazy toddler run, you bring me so much joy. I looked over your first and second birthday notes today, just to remind myself where you were a year and two ago.

I can’t believe how much you’ve grown. Last year, your sentences were more like a series of one-word statements strung together. (Sometimes, they were a series of questions, like an itty-bitty valley girl.) You called your sisters “Day day, Win woh, and Lay Mae.”

You still have this funny robot inflection I struggle to replicate in writing. Your voice is low for a little guy and your sentences mostly end with a low tone that denotes… authority? Certainty? Resignation? I’m not sure. But you are in a phase where you narrate everything, always drawing out the last (low pitched) word. “Daddy go to woooork.” “It’s time for naaaap.” “I eated luuuuuunch.” You are polite, almost without exception (in your words, anyway)… so many “pleases” and “thank yous” make my heart smile. You know and use the word “blame,” but you have it wrong in the most adorable way. If, for instance, Lilly kisses you and it’s a little wet, you say, “Lilly ated meeeee.” And I say, “Well, yeah. Can you blame her? You’re delicious!” You reply, “I caaaaan!” And then you gently thrum your chubby toddler fingers on your sister and sing in an abnormally high-pitched voice, “Blame!” Because that’s how you blame your sister. I don’t even know. It makes me laugh every time.

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I love that you’re still lovey. You give kisses and hugs and snuggles. When you get hurt or in trouble, you say (with the saddest eyes), “I need some loves,” and climb up for mama cuddles. Neither of the big girls have been cuddlers, and it’s fun to have my sweet boy who just likes to be held. I like how you love your sisters, too. You give the big ones kisses as often as they’ll let you and you take such kind care of the baby. I love how you sing to her when she’s sad. Actually, I love how you sing in general. You have a handful of hymns on rotation and a handful of other kid songs for variety, and I love them all.

You love to accessorize. Shoes. Sunglasses. Bags. Mardi Gras beads. Whatever, really.

You’ve finally hit the “NO!” phase. I suspected you weren’t going to remain totally compliant—you don’t have the genetic material for that business. But up until the last few months, you’ve been awfully easy to parent. Now, we see the standard displays of toddler power and rage that everyone kind of expects.

You know what, Bud? It’s fine. As I told your big sister back when she turned three, I love you plenty to help you figure out how to behave. I don’t mind that you have your own (very strong) opinions… that’s fine. But also, we’re going to temper that with a little bit of your parents’ wisdom until you get some of your own. Yes, it’s harder to parent you now than it was a year ago, but I don’t love you any less. Also, you’re even more fun than you were then, so it all kind of balances out.

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photo credit: Sarah Lewis Photography

The last few months, when I pray for you as you go down for bed, I always pray (among all the other things) “Jesus, please help him learn to obey.” At this point, you frequently interrupt me: “NO! Don’t ask Jesus to OBEY! I not WANT to obey!” I usually shrug at this and say, “I know you don’t, Buddy. That’s because you’re a sinner. We all are.” And then, your parting shot: “I NOT a SINNER! I’m BRIAN.” I carry on with the prayers, chuckling a little inside.

But a few weeks ago, you switched it up. After I prayed, you asked to pray, too. “Because Jesus WANTS me!” Yes, son. Jesus DOES want you. Go ahead. And you began… “Dear Jesus… [several seconds of nervous giggling]… fank you for…  [giggles]… obey… [more giggles]…” and so on for several minutes until you’d worn your giggly, delightful heart out and said, “Can I just pray to Daddy?” No, sweets. That’s not how praying works. But you can talk to Jesus like you talk to Daddy. That would be fine. So you do. The last little while, you’ve gotten more comfortable with it. There’s still a little nervous laughter (fine by me!) but it’s mostly just the heart of a nearly-three-year-old talking to Jesus as best he knows how.

I love you, Brian Boy. You’re delightful and growing up exactly right.

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words failing… again.

Hey, y’all! Happy end of October! I’ve totally loved/been eaten alive by this month’s blogging challenge.

I had some plans today to write a piece on body image, because I have some things going on in my head about it, and pretty much any time I write anything on body image, it blows up because WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT IT.

But then my family got some tremendously sad news last night and I kind of lost my words again.

My father-in-law and his wife were on the way to pick up their 11-year-old daughter, and they got t-boned, and now he’s gone. She was injured as well, and initially, nobody knew how badly. (It sounds like she will be okay, physically.)

Last night when I told the kids, Katherine said (with classic Katherine attitude), “I’m jealous of Grandpa Jim. He gets to be all happy in heaven with JESUS.” I laughed and agreed, but explained, “We’re not sad for Grandpa Jim. We’re sad for the people he left behind. Like Nanny Edith and Amanda. And us.”

The grief hasn’t hit yet. They live a couple thousand miles away, so it feels remote and unreal right now. My current reactions are divided between a sudden realization of the brevity of life and a lot of logistical questions that feel really crass to ask right now, and can’t be answered yet anyway. I certainly can’t find any meaningful words. I’m tempted to eulogize him on my blog, but that seems kind of cheap.

Anyway, I’ll totally write the other piece… eventually. But not today. Today, I will just sit and count it a win that I finished school with the kids, and I will pray for Grandpa Jim’s wife and daughter and family as we wait for answers to all of my (truly inconsequential) questions. It feels like a flat and sad ending to a month filled with a lot of work, but I can’t just leave day 31 blank. (I mean, I could, and it wouldn’t be a big deal. But I won’t, because I double-dog-dared myself to finish it a month ago.)

So… that’s not a real blog post. Thanks for reading it anyway. Please pray for Edith’s continued recovery and her and Amanda’s grief, along with that of the rest of the people around him—us included.


This post is part of a 31-day series called “Grace in Failure.” Other posts from the series can be found here.

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swimming in lane six

When I was a senior in high school, I joined swim team.

It was a weird thing to do. I’d never swum (swam? swimmed? Google says swum…) competitively before… I’d never even done laps. I was out of shape and years behind most of the kids on the team, many of whom had been swimming on teams since they could read. I didn’t have the lithe swimmer’s physique that they all had.

But I had the other seniors in Lane Six. There were three of us. As far as I know, we were all trying swim team for our first time. We all lacked the training and skill and talent of the rest of the team. The coaches stuck us in the last lane: lane six. While the rest of the fast swimmers were doing their workouts, we got the modified version. The coaches tried to teach us better form and complicated things like flip turns and the butterfly stroke. (I managed flip turns, if ungracefully. I tried fly. Really hard. But it was atrocious.) We had to compete, so we did freestyle sprints, because it posed the lowest risk of drowning. I’m pretty sure we each lost every heat.

As I write it, the story sounds cringeworthy and utterly painful. But senior year swim team is actually one of my most cherished memories of high school. My friends and I struggled and choked our way through the workouts, but we were doing it together. It taught me that failure isn’t so big a deal. As long as I’m getting air, it’s good enough. Doing my best really does matter, even if my best is worse than everyone else’s by a long way. We laughed at each other and ourselves. We got strong. We got tired. We got really, really sore.

I learned that there isn’t always a reason to compare myself to people in other lanes. They’re faster. They’re slimmer. They’re more graceful, every one of them. It’s fine.

Sometimes all that matters is that I’m with a couple lane buddies and we’re having fun together, doing our best, and trying hard not to drown.


This post is part of a 31-day series called “Grace in Failure.” Other posts from the series can be found here.

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dinner of champions

I hate post-holiday candy in the house.

Usually, I’m all responsible and stuff. I let them have a few pieces when they get home, then another one now and again as treats (bribes) over the next few weeks until it’s gone. But it makes me crazy. (And you know what I think about things that make me crazy.)

It’s not just because I’m bad at self-control and will mindlessly eat gross candy throughout the day until my body feels weird (though I will).

It’s the whining.

“Mom, can we have a piece of candy?” Times three, every few minutes. After a while I do one of two things… I either chuck (eat) the candy on the sly or I start saying “yes” every time so it can just GO AWAY.

This year, I decided to change it up. We went to a trick-or-treaty event in town this afternoon with some friends and the three big kids came home with a bag each of candy. (NO REESE’S. NOT ONE. NO PEANUT BUTTER OF ANY KIND. What the actual crap?!? Oh, right. Allergens. Well, that’s good. But also, WHAT IS THE POINT WITHOUT REESE’S???)

Go ahead and eat it, darlings. Eat as much as you’d like. (We nixed it in the car for obvious reasons, but otherwise, it was fair game.) We got home and while I fixed dinner, the kids settled at the table with their loot bags and ate… and ate… and ate.

One kid ate most of her dinner, because Saturday is Dessert Night at our house and she wanted more candy. (???) One kid ate a few bites of his. And one ate zero bites and went to bed with a stomach full of only Skittles and Nerds.

Whatever. I’m over it.

Bottom line? The kids each ate like three quarters of their available candy. They can polish the rest off for breakfast. I don’t even care. Then it’s back to eating normal food and I don’t have to hear anybody asking for candy until the next sugar-centered holiday. We’ll call it a win.


(Okay, I get it. This isn’t so much a “Grace in Failure” post as it is a “questionable parenting decisions that the children survive” kind of post. It’s fine.)


This post is part of a 31-day series called “Grace in Failure.” Other posts from the series can be found here.

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the God who is *with*

It’s not yet Christmas, but just the same, my thoughts are on Emmanuel. This name of Jesus is possibly my favorite. While I tend to associate it with Christmas, when he first entered to be with, I’m learning the value of His with-ness all the time. “With” is such a concrete thing for a God who often feels far from concrete.

I am the oldest of five. Two of my siblings live near me in Alaska and two live elsewhere. The oldest of my little sisters lives on the other side of the world. She moved there a few years ago to follow the call of this God who is with. The trouble? We’d only become actual, soul-deep friends a handful of years before that. All through our growing up years, there was competition and antagonism and finally in our twenties (a surprise gift from the Giver of all good things!) our hearts connected with a depth I never anticipated. And now she lives in a place that is 10 hours ahead of me, so very nearly literally halfway around the world. We can talk frequently because living in the future is magical. We know what is happening in each other’s lives and with each other’s kids. I see pictures of her toddler that has springy curls nearly identical to the ones my oldest sported at that age. I see the baby who is just a couple months ahead of my youngest. It’s almost the same as if she were here.

But I miss her company. She is not with.

There’s no hanging out on my futon, drinking tea while discussing everything and nothing, interrupted more than once every sixty seconds by our collective six children. No impromptu playdates at a park or McDonalds. We talk. I know a lot of small details of her life and she knows a lot of small details of mine. We understand each other. But we don’t have the chance right now to do life together.


Emmanuel. With us. In the day-to-day, mundane, boring details. He sees. He is with, and not bound by distance or time zones.


Life as a stay-at-home mama to four (Kindergarten and down) is often a solitary and unwitnessed experience. I make a million small decisions, mediate a million small (or large) disagreements, answer a million questions, all before lunch. Most of the work I do is invisible. Laundry gets folded, then dirty again. Dishes are used as soon as they’re clean. Toddlers need the same limits enforced over… and over… and over again. And between all of these things, the baby needs fed. Basically nothing I do stays done for very long. It’s a good life. It’s the one I dreamed of more than twenty years ago, when I was barely older than my biggest is now. But still, lonely and unseen sometimes.

Except it isn’t. Through all of that, there is One who is with. Emmanuel. He sees.

Two weeks ago, my right (dominant) hand was in a partial cast for a week following a minor surgery. One morning that week, my toddler boy woke up with something… not right with his gut. Not to be too graphic, but I threw those footie pajamas away.

There is poop seriously everywhere and I need to figure out what to do. I look around for an adultier adult, but there is only me. Me, on not nearly enough sleep, with a screaming six-month-old and my dominant hand in a non-removable absorbent cast. Fan-freaking-tastic. In the bathroom with my right arm in the air and my left hand trying to clean up the unbelievable mess, with my six-year-old helpfully trying to keep my six-month-old happy and my four-year-old less helpfully stealing my phone and ferreting it away under her bed, with my little boy crying because he has poop all over him and doesn’t really like the handheld shower head (sorry, kiddo!) I’m at a complete loss and feeling very much alone.

I was not alone.

I remembered in that chaos. Rather, He tapped my shoulder to remind me he was with. Emmanuel.

I cried out to Him. I left the bathroom for a second with all the noise and my arm still over my head and hollered, “Jesus! I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT TO DO HERE!”

He was there. More than that, he had an answer. Not an all-encompassing Big Answer like He sometimes gives. Nobody walked through my door with hands to help and I didn’t have a game plan for handling this crazy, but I suddenly knew the next thing to do, so I did it. And then I went back out into the living room and hollered again. (I realize Emmanuel is with, even—sometimes especially—in the bathroom, but my poor boy was already freaking out and I didn’t want to alarm him further.)

“OKAY, JESUS! NOW WHAT?!?”

And on we went. One step at a time, with noise and mess and absolute entropy, I lived that one crazy morning out with the One who is with.

And it was fine. Eventually everything (including that cast I needed to wear for another several days) was clean. The children were fed. Laundry was begun and books were read. What I most needed that morning was Someone with me, both guiding and bearing witness to it all. I needed company, not in an abstract “exchange details of the day from a distance” way like I do with my sister, but in a “hang out in the mess” kind of way. I needed Emmanuel. And the same Emmanuel who came through all the mess of birth into all the mess of our world did not disappoint.

He never does.

 


This post is part of a 31-day series called “Grace in Failure.” Other posts from the series can be found here.

31days of grace in failure 4-3

celebration and sadness

This weekend, I have a whole lot of friends converging in a city in North Carolina for a guided writing retreat. I decided to start writing this post right now because I’ve exhausted all the Instagram and facebook posts tagged #hopewriters and #guidedwritingretreat. I’m so, so excited for my friends. I went last year, and for so many reasons, the trip was one huge highlight after another. This year, I just couldn’t make the logistics work, mostly because of a certain small somebody who still nurses in the wee hours at 15 months.

I miss them. Yes, I’m bummed about the content I’ll be missing and the chance to plan and execute a real writing day. But “real writing days” aren’t a thing in my life right now, so I can get the highlights from friends later. What I miss is being with my people in real life. I have friends. Good ones. I talk to them a lot. But writing is kind of a quirky hobby and there just aren’t that many people I see day-to-day who understand the draw and the struggles of sharing your soul to bring light and hope to those few readers who need it.

I had a post in my head already written. “Failing at FOMO.” I was going to talk about combating the Fear Of Missing Out with celebration. And that’s a legit thing to do. Celebrating with friends really does combat jealousy, and I figured it should probably do the same for FOMO.

What I’m learning instead, as I attempt it for real, is, first of all, I’m not experiencing FOMO. There’s no fear here, just an ache at missing connection with some friends. Secondly, celebration doesn’t actually cancel out the sadness that I’m missing my people. They coexist. This shouldn’t be a surprise. I feel like by now I should be pretty good with holding contradictory emotions, but somehow I didn’t see it coming. I really thought I was going to be able to beat it and be able to experience only the joy. I’M SO HAPPY FOR YOU GUYS! YOU’RE GOING TO HAVE A GREAT TIME! TAKE NOTES AND TELL ME ABOUT IT LATER! I’M WATCHING FOR PICTURES!!!

All of that’s there, but the ache remains.

And that’s okay. Just like I was so thankful at the beginning of the month for a friendship worth missing when Kat moved away, I’m grateful for these relationships that are good and real and worth showing up for.


So, to my lovely friends in Charlotte right now… God bless you. I pray this time fills your souls. I’m so very excited for you and I’m cheering for you and can’t wait to hear all about it. Hug each others’ necks for me, okay?

And I miss you. I wish I could be there.


This post is part of a 31-day series called “Grace in Failure.” Other posts from the series can be found here.

31days of grace in failure 4-3