Somedays we all need a little encouragement. And these 9 motherhood memes will give you all the feels! Packed with inspiration and love for the busy mama, they are too sweet not to share. Because this season may be physically draining… but our hearts? They’ve never been fuller.Read more
Look at a mother’s hands.
They may not look like much. Hands that were once manicured and polished, are now speckled with colored markers and non-toxic paint. The chips in her nails arrive courtesy of countless Lego stacks pried apart and Paw Patrol stickers scratched off walls. Her hands have seen more loads of laundry than ever thought possible. And her palms have pushed swings and carried coats and gripped stroller handles until they were calloused.
But her hands? Oh, her hands. They are evidence of such deep love.Read more
Accomplishing Milestones In Their Own Time
As a baby in the NICU, it seemed to take our son forever to learn to eat. After seven weeks in the hospital, we were beyond anxious to bring him home. But the nurses simply smiled and said that he wasn’t ready. “He just isn’t strong enough yet.”
And then one day he yanked out his nose tube and decided to bottle feed. They sent him home a day later.
He does things in his own time.
He was fifteen months and wasn’t even crawling yet. He’d just sit there. And then one day, while making dinner, I looked over to see him nonchalantly walking down the hallway by himself. As if he’d been walking for ages.
He does things in his own time.Read more
When I was three months old, the Christmas tree fell on me.
I was lying on a blanket underneath the fir, apparently fascinated by the twinkling lights and sparkling ornaments. My mother only left the room for a moment. And it was then, for whatever reason, the tree toppled. With me underneath.
As my mom rushed back into the room, she saw the fallen tree, couldn’t hear me making any noise and immediately assumed the worst.
Fortunately, I was fine. Not a scratch, not a bruise. The branches of the tree had landed perfectly on either side of me. I was just chilling amidst the boughs, unaware of what had happened. My mom always credited an angel for that one. Read more
It doesn’t matter who they are. As soon as she sees them walking towards her, the little hand pops up over the edge of the stroller, waving hello.
She sees them.
The neighbours. The dog walkers. The ones busily shouting into their phones. The ones walking alone. Old. Young. The ones I’d chose to avoid eye-contact with.
She sees all of them.
And I can’t help but wonder what life would be like if I stopped to truly see them too.
Remnants of breakfast muffins sprinkle the floor. Toys dance across kitchen counters as I appease hungry babes with slices of vegetables and bits of bread. I search for the holiness permeating the mundane. The transfer from ordinary into missional.
It’s here. The call to more.
Not to do more but to be more. To look closer. To scrape off my blinders and truly see.
A call to holiness.
A holy call.
The dishes and the diapers. Toilets in need of scrubbing and laundry still to be hung. Downy hair softly caressed as sobs make way to comforted sniffles. Sibling arguments broken up and consequences meted. Snacks diced into perfectly-sized bites. Midnight prayers offered as patience wanes and exhaustion sinks deep and grace abounds. Everyday moments with Kingdom potential.
Look up, sweet child, fix your eyes on Him and see all that which He is calling you to.
A call to more. A call to holiness.
A call to intentional living in the ordinary. Missional motherhood. A holy calling. A call to follow and serve and love. To see HIM in each of these otherwise unremarkable seeming snapshots of life.
A call that transforms the everyday into eternal promise. Never by our works but His. This redeeming, life-altering act of grace that touches everything.
I’m always skeptical of women who say their pregnancy “just flew by.”
For me, each trimester is a slow plod forward. The passage of time stutters and hesitates, marked by weekly checks to see “what size of vegetable the baby is today.” I wait for the bump to grow noticeable, for the flutters to erupt into kicks. I fight down the fears: the wait for the bleeding to begin, the wait for the instant everything goes wrong. I mark the milestones as impatience abounds.
I remind myself to soak in the slow. Waiting is a gift too.
But this time around, things have been different. Life is busy. The days pass in a blur of school drop-offs and lunches made, of nap times and groceries, of walks to the library and full schedules. With two other little ones to keep up with, pregnancy happens quick.
And so, I’m almost startled to find myself past the halfway point.
Now, I have to actively remind myself to search for the slow. To pause. Stop and cherish. Because now, I am the mother who says it’s “flying by.”
At the ultrasound appointment, a few weeks back, the technician looked over and asked if we’d like to know the baby’s gender. For us, this is an extra gift to bond. A chance to call our child by name. To love them, no matter what, as they are — an incredible gift. Placing my hands on a rounding belly, I thank God for life.
A story that feels a little more complete.
And so, it is with great delight, that we announce… Read more
We’ve all heard the statistic: 1 in 4 pregnancies end in miscarriage.
The ultrasound machine that once pulsed with the echoes of life is still. There’s no heartbeat. No baby. This good-bye was too soon and the empty womb is matched only by the hollowness you feel within. 1 in 4.
A few months after my first miscarriage, I entered into a new statistic: “1 in 50.” This is otherwise known as the approximate 2% of women who experience two miscarriages in a row.
To This Year’s Kindergarten Teacher,
Your classroom is full. It bustles with kids in squeaky, new shoes and oversized backpacks. Some of their smiles are shy, their eyes wide and nerves evident. Others squirm and hop their way around the room, their energy radiating out through a little body that struggles to hold still.
“Welcome to Kindergarten!”
You’ve written each of their names on little placards dotted with star stickers. Over the coming year, these names will grow from mere faces into personalities and stories that you know and love.
But what you don’t know is that there’s a name missing from your class list this year.
You’re one spiderman backpack short.
One tousled-haired child with a mischevious grin is missing.
You don’t see him. But I do.
I’m not the mom who loves to play.
I’m not the one who enjoys scuttling around on my hands and knees, driving cars around an invisible track or fighting off pretend pirates.
Imaginary play is NOT my strength.
And sometimes, I feel guilty about that.
I want to be the mom crawling around the park, pretending to be a crime-fighting dinosaur named Nora. The mom who spends hours acting out intricate storylines about robots and aliens, running around the house in costumes as we dodge lava pits and trolls. The mom who doesn’t get bored after a couple minutes of playing with Lego people.
I want to be that “uber fun mom” with endless energy and creative passion for free play. I want to give my kids that experience.
But that’s not me.
And that’s okay too.
Church life with a baby is hard. I forgot how hard.
I haven’t heard a full sermon in over half a year now. The messages are fragmented: bits here and there, snatches of verses and sentences caught and quickly forgotten as I scurry out to quiet a hungry babe. I sit in the nursery, rocking and burping. Sometimes the sermon plays through the speaker, sometimes it doesn’t. Most often us moms are all too distracted by feeds and naps and foul-smelling diapers to hear the words anyway.
Come to me all who labour and are heavy laden.
The invitation presses against my soul. To come and lay down my aches and my insecurities, my doubts and my fears, and to simply sit in His presence. To stop striving and simply worship.
This is a season too.
For decades, women have been told to wait until the end of the first trimester before announcing their pregnancies. After thirteen weeks, the chances of miscarriage decrease dramatically and you can avoid the awkwardness comes with having to inform everyone that you are “no longer pregnant” if you lose the baby.
This is one of the main rationals behind this advice.
And I hate it.