I fell hard on the ice last week. Real hard. It happened in an instant: I was getting babies out of their car seats to go watch a preschool Christmas concert and in no time at all I was on the ground of the parking lot with a one-year-old cocooned to my chest, unaware of the fall at all. But if my instinctual reaction was to protect Jordi, something else had to give, and since no hands were available to break my fall it was just a tailbone and solid ice. The pain quickly shot up my back and down my right leg, but an entourage of parents and grandparents ready to see their four-year-olds under the spotlight were all sympathetically “ohhh” and “ouchhh”-ing from a few feet away, so I had to act like this was no big deal. But it was. I smiled my way through the concert and then finally let myself feel how much it hurt when we got home, and as I laid on my back unable to roll up to my tailbone at all, I realized that this was basically a perfect metaphor for what life can feel like: I fell, it hurt, and I cannot carry all of this anymore.

My heart has always battled bouts of this urge to quit. Always. I ran for student council president in eight grade and lost and then never, ever tried again, even though I always wanted to. But trying again and losing was basically the worst thing my fourteen-year-old mind could imagine happening so it was never worth the risk. It took me six solid years of writing before I ever called myself a writer, because for most of those six years I operated on a fast-moving pendulum of “I want to write forever!” to “I should quit, no one like these words anyway,” and the poles of those feelings could knock back and forth on the daily.

Because here is the thing: trying feels vulnerable, and what if you try and fail? The people pleaser in me feels the slightest bit of shame at even the thought.

And last week, perhaps more than I have ever felt the urge to quit, I really wanted to. I was at the end of what I could handle, the joy I should have in the faces of my babies felt more like a grudge, the words I put to paper felt meaningless, and my body physically craved a sleep so deep that I could just have a break from thinking about all that is in front of me right now.

The narrative reel of my mind spun on storylines like:

Years of therapy produces no real results for autistic child.

Strong-willed teenage daughter rebels from parents.

Mom writes about trusting God in hard circumstances but cannot actually trust him when life is the hardest.

The theme was clear: what if I try so hard at all of these things God has given me, and ultimately, I fail?

When that question creeps in, I resort to doing what I have done so many times before: I decided I simply cannot try so hard, because that gives my heart an illusion of being a little bit more protected.

But here is what I know: that is the wrong narrative to begin with, and that is fear. Because God has given us work to do. It’s hard work, sometimes it is downright painful work, but it is good work. It’s parenting for the long haul and accepting that even when we steward these little hearts to the best of our ability, we are merely planting and only God makes things grow; it is repairing what the world would absolutely deem a hopeless marriage even when you would be justified in walking away from it; it is doing what you know God has given you to do: writing, creating, serving, making music, caring and pouring in to someone even when it feels like none of it matters. Remember that the world uses a very different metrics system than Jesus, and if it is this work that we want to quit, these good endeavors that God can truly get all the glory for, I think it is really the Holy Spirit pushing at the seams of our heart saying, “Pay attention to me, because if you’re trying to do this on your own you will want to quit.”

(And sometimes that nudge is less gentle and you actually fall on your arse, which is apparently what my heart needed to pay attention.)

Life is not so pretty and clean-cut that I can pretend a well-written sentiment will be enough to get me through the hardest things. I know myself well enough to be certain that I will want to quit again, because there will be long seasons that do not produce fruit and there will be efforts met with no applause and there will always be fear competing with faith.

And there will always, always be Jesus.

The target of our lives is not moving. It is sure, and it is steady, because our aim is the glory of God. It is not elusive, and it is not just beyond what I can manage. It’s there. My job is simply to reorient my steps to that end, and not to the gains I hope for in this world because those are the things that are moving. Following Jesus has always been modeled by laying down our lives and our gains for something better, for Him.

Perhaps my favorite prayer in all of scripture comes from the plea of a desperate father, crying out to Jesus and saying, “I believe; help my unbelief!” Those words might be all we can find, but when we want to quit, they are also all that we need.

Lord, I do believe. Help my unbelief! Help me Jesus, to not want the kind of faith that believes you are only good if our circumstances change, but to believe that you are good because you never change. 

It's just enough brave's second birthday. Depending on how we look at it, two years can be a lot of time, or no time at all. But it is enough time for a lot to happen; and in our little home, a lot has happened. It's enough time for one baby to brew and be born and then turn into a crawling, babbling, eating-everything ten-month old. It’s enough time to watch a perfectly healthy four-month old grow and do great and then slowly, slowly, slowly stop doing great; and it’s enough time to learn a whole new vocabulary and how to sweet talk the people on the other end of the phone at one of a dozen offices we repeatedly talk to. It’s enough time to watch a little girl become a big girl, taking on preschool and gymnastics and making new friends everywhere she goes; and it’s enough time to validate that she is like her mama in many ways but mostly much stronger, much braver.

Two years is enough time to write almost 100 essays and send them out into the world with no expectations, only the hope that the Holy Spirit would direct the words to land where he wants them to. And it’s enough time to second guess this writing gig and contemplate quitting approximately 1000 times—so, yes, ten times more than I’ve sat down to actually write.

But mostly, two years is enough time for God to totally, completely, irreversibly change why I do anything at all. Especially writing.

When I started writing on just enough brave, I thought it was because the life of a Christ follower must be destined for grand adventures, sharing the gospel in the hardest places, or doing big, brave things that earned the favor of God and inspired the masses as they did. And I thought surely God was asking me—all of us, really—to start doing those big, brave things. But two years later I understand something that I didn’t when this space was born: He is, but he also isn’t.

You see, I thought having just enough brave in my life would mean that I would storm the brothels and free the girls stuck in a life they could not possibly want.  I thought it meant maybe moving across the world with my family and living an epic, book-worthy adventure—or at least merit getting our picture in the church newsletter. I thought it meant being fearless for the kingdom of God in ways that were noticed just enough to humbly accept a pat on the back. Today, I think it could be—God does ask so many people to actually do those big, brave things. But I’m starting to wonder if we can even plan for them, or if God simply surprises us with big as we do the small, brave things right in front of us.

Because it seems to me that the ways of Jesus, while always brave, have also always been small: groups of twelve rather than followings of thousands, the daily work of prayer and meals and serving the people right next to him, or stopping for the one woman who touched the fringe of his garment in the midst of a crowd curious about what he was offering them. Sacrificial and selfless. Controversial and consistent. Brave and small. Only God can make something big for eternity.

Today, I think brave means driving my sweet boy to therapy day after day, month after month, longing for progress but refusing to give up hope when that progress is slow coming because I’m fighting to remember what my hope is really in. I think brave is meeting my neighbors instead of closing the garage door behind me. I think brave is repenting of the hundreds of times I have only seen myself. I think brave is saying that I cannot do one more good thing if it means someone else has to tuck my babies in again. I think brave is believing in scripture, all of it, and letting it dwell in me richly in the face of a culture that laughs at that very idea.

I think brave is showing up for this life, my life— my preschool and therapists and bills and essays and nursing schedules and absolutely no idea if the thing I pray for every day will ever happen this side of heaven life— knowing Jesus is on the throne and that nothing can take him off. Brave is joy in any circumstance. Brave is hope when it’s hard.

Two years of longing for this kind of life that Jesus offers us has taught me that I do need a little bit of brave. But I thought I needed it to change the world; now I know I need it to just change my heart. And maybe, that is God’s plan to change the world—one changed heart at a time.

Here’s to two years of words that have transformed me in ways I didn’t even know I needed to be. And to being a little bit brave today, right where you are. Brave enough to believe the gospel is all we will ever need.

And to Jesus, because all of this is from Him, through Him, for Him. Amen. 

This beautiful northwest summer was all the things that summers are made of: the lake days and the barbeques and the nights that stretch out their sunsets long and slow. It was kids laughing and friends chatting and the lingering smell of baby sunscreen— the scent of heaven, I’m sure.

This summer has been so good to us. Not easy, but so good.

I will always remember this as the summer my daughter continued to amaze me with her bravery, going from jumping off the dock into to someone’s arms to calling the attention of anyone within earshot to “watch my 360!” and wanting to go under water with no life jacket at all. She’s not a baby anymore, she’s a little girl who puts her own clothes on and no longer needs my help with her shoes, and I watched that transformation happen right in front of me.

It was also the summer bookended by two distinct appointments: one with clipboards and conclusions, another with a doctor and a few hopeful theories. The months in between were marked with all kinds of dance steps: forward, backward, a few side shuffles and mostly rhythms I have no idea how to follow, but music I’m growing more comfortable with by the day. But the other bookend was a little boy who didn’t even like the bath when summer began and would swim to the middle of the lake with a grin on his face by the end if we let him—a beautiful reminder that things do not always finish the way they start, and what amazing grace that is.

It was the summer the third baby began to crawl and we hardly noticed; such a stark contrast to the first two who had cameras ready as soon as they found their knees and started rocking back and forth. I remember just looking down at the carpet and the baby was pulling himself toward a remote control and I said, “Oh, he’s crawling. Good job buddy.” Don’t worry, we’ve started planning for his counseling later in life, poor third child.

It was the summer that I read books that actually changed me; words and sentences that are now written on post-it notes around my home, reminding me of truths that make every heavy thing feel a whole lot lighter.

It was the summer I felt the poles of being at my worst in front of people I love and being at my best only in the quiet moments with Jesus: both serving to strip away any illusion I had that I’ve got my stuff together. I so do not. But I have a Savior, and that’s better.

It was the summer of gourmet hamburgers and fruit salad. It was root beer floats and ice water with strawberries. It was lounging on hammocks and four mile walks. It really was everything good, and it was a lot of things hard. But mostly, it was the summer God got so much bigger, the summer I learned that broken things are daily being made new, and that repentance must be part of the rhythm of my life, not the random occasion. It was the summer I’ve had to be the most honest with myself and others, a time I’ve had to come clean about my selfish ambitions and trade them for the beautiful gift of insufficiency.

And now, sitting here on the horizon of a new season, anticipating the order that comes with regular schedules, a daughter in preschool (praise hands!), and the fresh desire to see God’s kingdom come in the smallness of my simple life, I can only think that every season is good and hard, because life is good and hard. But I’m learning how to hold both with joy, how to live both with gratitude, and how to actually love both, the good and the hard, because of the glory God can get in them.

Both. There is so much tension in that word. We must need Jesus because he’s the only one I know who can handle both.  

Summer, thanks for being good to us.

Jesus, thanks for being the best for us. And thanks for giving us the summers. That was so good of you.

As soon as I heard the crying from my two-year-old’s room, I looked over at the clock. 4:38am: an hour of the day only redeemable by the fact that it is summer and the sun had just begun throwing gold over the tops of the hills I can see from my window. How beautiful, I thought briefly, and then stumbled my way to my crying boy.

Just ninety minutes before this I had nursed my six-month old back to sleep for the second time. And six hours before that, with an end-of-the-day mom tank blinking its caution light on “E,” I lost my patience with a bedtime-stalling three-year-old and shut the door on her without a prayer or a kiss; I simply could not muster either after she threw the Doc McStuffins radio at me when I told her sleeping with it was off the table. Toddlers, man. A strange species of loveable crazy-makers.

So after 15 minutes of rocking my two-year-old and praying that all too familiar mama prayer, Lord, you can do all things; please let this child go back to sleep, I realized that both the Lord and my child wanted something different from me, and our day was beginning far earlier than I was ready for it to, forcing a familiar sentiment forward in my mind: I don’t think I can do this.

Without question, being a mama is far harder than I ever imagined it would be. I don’t think I went in to this gig naïve, I just think motherhood is something we can only be, at best, marginally prepared for. I had my share of stay up late, get up early nights in college and graduate school—surviving on four to five hours of sleep is not a new thing. But surviving on four to five hours of (broken) sleep for three and half years? I’m just not sure one ever gets better at that; we simply learn to operate at 60 percent of full capacity. And really, being tired is just the beginning.

My three-year-old is in a constant state of “put your eyes on me, mom!” and stomping her feet in whiny distress when any answer I give her is not what she wants. The opportunities for heart training and teachable moments are not hard to find with her; we are in a spin cycle of precious obedience that we celebrate, and pulling-my-hair-out defiance that we agonize over. My two year-old, still searching for his words, needs something very different than her right now. His demeanor has been much easier to parent than his big sister so far, but his developmental needs are an emotional wringer. That, and he is also a two-year old boy. We all know what happens when you turn your back on them for too long: something, somewhere in the house will need a clean up. And then there’s the baby, and all I can say about him is praise to you, O Lord, for an easy baby whose greatest need is a full belly. Life with these beautiful three is all hands on deck, all the time.

Layered on top of exhaustion, discipline, speech therapy and cleaning up the latest spill, there’s the hardest part of motherhood: fear. Because every day there’s another story to remind me just how real and present evil is in this world: another life taken with a gun, another young girl’s dignity bought for pleasure, another diagnosis stealing the dream of a precious family.   

And far too often, I don’t think I can do this. I’m too tired. I don’t have enough strategies to discipline well and even if I did, my patience is gone and I fail to see through all the good advice I’ve been given. And mostly, I’m just flat scared of the world, and it is impossible to raise brave children when I’m not feeling brave at all.

But like God has so graciously done for me a thousand times in my life, he reminds me that the answer isn’t even found where I’ve been looking for it: in a good night’s rest or sound parenting advice or a gated community in a country with strict gun control. No. As much as I am a fan of all those things, there are no man-made structures big enough to keep out fear and keep in grace. I could raise my children in a bomb shelter and my own selfish and sinful nature would be enough to undo us all. But Jesus… every great turnaround of the heart begins with those two words, with that man.

As I poured a cup of cold brew coffee over ice, the clock crawling just past 5:00am and my toddler bringing me the remote control and rubbing his chest in his sign for “please,” I caught another glimpse of the sunrise; the beautiful warmth shining on the world thirty minutes before had only increased in intensity, and I knew in that moment that on my own, I can’t do this. I can no more raise my precious children with all the integrity that I want than I can make the sun rise again tomorrow morning.

But I’m not on my own. My hope is not in my ability to be a mama. My hope is in a Savior who covers my inability. He’s never once asked me to go it alone, and he walked this world two thousand years ago so I would know I don’t have to.  He knows what I need before I ask, whether that is patience or wisdom or faith. And he told me how to beg him for those things, summed up in this beautiful petition: Your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. All our lives can be covered in those words, from the minutiae of spilled milk to the anxiety of a terror-filled world.

Your kingdom come. Your kingdom come. Your kingdom come. Not mine. Yours, Lord.

I may not have all I want as a mama. I could use a lot more sleep, a bit more compliance and I’d sure love a world I felt a little bit safer in. But then I see the morning landscape painted in gold, and I think of a God who is right here, in the midst of all the scary and the pain and moments that leave us without words, and I know I have all I need, because I have a Savior.

Our hope is built on nothing less than Jesus’ blood and righteousness. Let’s walk in that peace today, friends. Our aim toward the glory of God and eternity with him is shaky, and on our own we will miss the mark completely. So let’s trust him to steady our hands, calm our hearts, and anchor our faith. He has, he will again.  

*Photo courtesy of Ashlee Gadd

On March 9th, I woke up, grabbed my phone and my daughter, and excitedly said, “Harper, let’s call Auntie Emmy and tell her Happy Birthday!” So we did, our enthusiastic singing voices ready and willing. Emily didn’t answer (thank goodness, she would have been too nice to stop me in the moment), so we sent a text saying something along the lines of: We were just calling to sing you HAPPY BIRTHDAY and tell you how much love you!

A few hours later Emily responded: “Thank you for the birthday love! And you’re the very first person to wish me Happy Birthday… because it’s on the 12th! Thanks for being early, I love you!” followed by little laughing emoticons and then a heart, almost as if she was saying: “it’s ok that you’re a dummy, Katie, I love you anyway.”

If I had just met Emily, say, a year ago, this might be excusable. New friendships celebrate birthdays, but sometimes we only remember the general month and need a reminder of the date. But y’all, let me give you a little context: Emily is one of my people. She introduced me to my husband, stood up at my wedding, watched me birth two children and got maybe the second or third text after grandparents when the third was born. There are simply not that many people on this earth that I should remember the birthdate of more. I have been celebrating her on March 12th for ten years, an entire decade. Still, in the year of our Lord 2016, let it be known that I forgot my best friend’s birthday. It became the latest in a growing list of obvious symptoms that I am suffering from, and they all point to the same diagnosis: Mom brain. Severe, undeniable, mom brain. It’s a real thing; the combination of being short on sleep and heavy on diapers.

Maybe many of you can relate. Emails go unresponded to. Text messages get forgotten. Days of the week? Well, goodnight! I call Jordi by his brother’s name two dozen times a day, cannot remember for life of me where I put the checkbook last (wait, did I even write that check I was supposed to?), and if you ask me about dinner plans I’m not speaking to you for a month (but let’s be honest, I would probably forget that you texted, anyway).

At this point, I believe I can only be relied upon to remember that my name is Katie and I have, two... I mean three children ages three and under.

Last night I fell asleep nursing Jordi. The heavy, dead asleep kind of sleep. It was 8:40pm; I had not brushed my teeth or taken my mascara off. I came to a little after 9:00pm, a little bit shaky from the REM cycle I started to enter but abruptly came up from, did a quick mental assessment of where I was, who I was, and where my other kids should be (sleeping, thankyouJesus!), lifted my baby into his crib, took my jeans off, and went right back to bed. I wish I were making this up.

A mere four years ago not taking my makeup off was unthinkable, and not brushing my teeth?! I mean, I can’t even tell you how repulsive the thought was to me. But here is the honest truth: around 7:00 at night my mental acuity, which has been slowly leaking all day, is pretty much gone. In its place a general sense of apathy for my appearance sets in, including the health of my teeth and state of my skin (speaking of which, my left is eye is screaming at me today for leaving the mascara on; like a mean mommy-hangover from the party I had with three babies last night). 

I never thought it would come to this. Alas, it has. It absolutely has. Virtually everything I prided myself on in my pre-mom life has a diminished capacity at this point; including being relevant, fit, intelligent, on-time, and organized. The former athlete deep down hardly recognizes the girl whose last real calorie burn was three weeks ago. I’m trying to remember what it was like to be intellectually engaged, but let’s be honest, anything more difficult than the ABC song is a stretch. And someone used the word ‘fleek’ on instagram the other day. What in the world could that possibly mean? I realize society is moving on without me when completely made-up words find legitimacy, but I have no room in my life for that, so whatever. My personal bandwidth is measuring at about 95% children right now. But, all three are alive and fed today, so let’s just focus on that and call it a victory.

I can only hope that there is a bend in the road somewhere up ahead. I’m told there is, and I’m trusting my sources.

For today, I’m looking at my red-eye in the mirror and just laughing. I have to laugh. Taking yourself too seriously only exacerbates the mom brain symptoms. And I know I will have this season one time and it’s gone. I have a husband who validates that this gig can be hard and jumps in to share it every minute that he is home. I have friends who are nothing but gracious, and two grandmas who live in town (holla!). And I have sweet, smiling faces and sticky fingers climbing all over me at this very moment, and my heart could just burst. (So could my brain, but I’ll take that trade). 

Holy rollers, life with three kids three and under is proving to be a lot. A whole lot. One minute I’ve got this and everyone is content in their place: one on the breast, one playing with his ABC computer, another at the table making Valentines for her friends. But I blink and it all falls apart. Little man finally clears the gas bubble but half of his milk comes up with it, and at the same moment his big brother wants on mama’s lap and the Valentine’s fun has worn off so the three-year-old has pushed the chair to the counter and found the kitchen shears so she can make “big girl crafts.” Deep breath. Because this is it, this is motherhood. Life with my babies is all at once more than I can handle and everything I love most in the whole world.

A few days ago, Alex picked up Cannon, our sweet middle child, and he hugged him tight and said, “Cannon, I just love the way God made you.” And as I watched that hug, I grabbed those words and thought, yes, that. That is exactly what we are going to tell our kids every single day. Especially on the hard days, when it goes from good to crazy in half a second. And not because we need a false motivational talk to reorient our parenting, but because it is true: we love the way God made our kids, and we want them to know it.

At the very core of each of our kids is the Imago Dei, the image of a perfect God. When I look at Harper, who is wild, folks, real wild—she demands our attention at all times, wants to sing and roller skate in the house and tell stories about everything—I know that underneath that will and fierceness is the exact nature God wanted her to have. He wanted her bold, strong, and loud. And I don’t know what plans he has for her, but I know she will need those things, and my job is to train her heart to want to use them for his kingdom.

And then I look at Cannon, who is quiet and tender. He prefers to watch, and when crowds get to be too much I can usually find him in another room with his blocks or big orange tractor. Cannon has not found many words yet, but he sure isn’t stingy with his cuddles—this boy loves to be held, finding his place in the nook between my shoulder and head with no trouble at all. He is so gentle and mild-mannered, and I don’t know what plans God has for him, but I know he will need those things, and my job is to train his heart to use them for his kingdom.

And Jordi, my precious newborn, who has proven thus far to simply be content. He smiles at anyone who will coo along with him, and his chubby cheeks are irresistibly kissable. We don’t know what personality will emerge in our littlest, but whoever he becomes, whatever God gives him, I know he will need those things, and my job is to train his heart to use them for his kingdom.

Our kids are all so different, and they all need very different things from us. But we are ALL so different, and we all need different things from one another. I love that about God. He knew we would all need a Savior, so he gave us one. But then he layered on top of that beautifully unique ways to walk through the world and love one another, and not one of us could do exactly what he has asked another to do. I need that confidence for myself every day, and I want to give it to my babies, too. Harper will play a role that Cannon may not, just as he will impact people in a manner Harper never could. And the same will be true for Jordi. And I am so in love with every detail of it, because I get to be the mom who cheers them all on, watching God do for them what I will never be able to as he guides the steps of their lives.

Every day, I want to speak truth over these precious kids. I want to tell them that they will need grace and forgiveness, as we all do, and that Jesus is the only one who offers that without condition. I want them to look to the sky, over the mountains, across the ocean and even at the details of a flower and think ‘Wow, you did all of this, God?” I want them to love God’s words and hide it in their hearts forever. And I want to speak truth to myself in the process, giving 'out loud' reminders to my heart that the hardest of moments are part of the beauty in being a mom to these children.

I hope they look back on their childhood and remember joy and laughter and consistent training from their mom and dad, and I hope they always believe it when we say, “I love the way God made you.”

these three... thank you, Jesus.

Last night was just one of those nights.  Fed the baby at 1:00am.  Three-year-old crying at 1:45am.  Fed the baby again at 3:30am.  Toddler crying at 4:00am.  Baby needs a serious diaper change at 4:45am.  Mama finally gives in to the morning just before 5:00am, because the infant is not going back to sleep.  A snapsort of mothering little ones in all its glory.

This weekend a sweet friend asked me for an update, wondering how being the mom of three children is going.  Well, we are tired.  Real tired.  I am making it through the day just fine but by about 6:00pm I’m in the danger zone—as in, if I sit down there is a 100% chance I will fall asleep right there on the couch with three unattended children watching Dora, throwing things in toilets, attempting to pour their own milk, giving the baby his gas drops and explaining to me as I come out of my momentary coma to a gagging baby that she was ever-so-not-gently “just giving Jordi his paci, mama.”

Life with three.  Please excuse the cliché, but there is never a dull moment.

Jordi is six weeks old today, a fact I can hardly believe.  I feel like a moment ago I was marveling at his brown hair underneath the newborn hat, and today we can already load the car in under 15 minutes.  (It started at about 45, so I consider this a win).  But our newest family member is a dream: he is mello and cuddly almost all the time, save for the hours he is working out the gas his little body is still not used to.  He sleeps well at night, waking up every few hours for milk but then going right back to sleep.  He loves his swing, his big red dog paci, and his mama’s chest—and I love him there, too, so we’ve got a good thing going.

Cannon is twenty-months old, and ever my sweet, introverted little man.  Two things make Cannon giggle like nothing else: his daddy’s tickles and the map on Dora—he just loves that little guy and claps his hands excitedly every time Dora announces that it is time to ask for help because we don’t know where to go.  He could drink ovaltine all day long and be totally happy with it, and if there is a slide around he wants nothing else more than to go up and fly down again and again.  Cannon is not talking much yet; he says mama and dada, Dora and “ma” (more), and he also has the sweetest rendition of “do-du” (thank you) going on, as he taps his mouth to sign it but seems to think one says it as you hand something off rather than receive it.  He sees the sweetest speech therapist every Thursday, and he reminds me with every challenge and victory that one of the greatest privileges of motherhood is getting to be our kids’ cheerleaders.

If Cannon is quiet and introverted, well the very opposite of him would come in the package of love and energy and fire that is his big sister.  Harper is three years old, and if she is awake, she is, quite literally, putting on a show.  She can, and does, turn anything into a microphone, comes up with her own words to the rhythm she chooses—which will undoubtedly have something to do with a ballerina or princess—and shake her hips from right to left like she has been doing it all her life.  She has a wild imagination, and although we spend a good amount of time every day training her heart to listen and be kind and learn what respect is, we spend even more time laughing at the things she says.  For example, she handed me the Kazoo she earned at a birthday party this weekend and said, “Here mama, you blow.” I tried a few times and could not get that kazoo humming, so I gave it back to her and remarked with sarcasm, “I’m glad my daughter can do this and I can’t figure it out.”  To which she responded, “Well, you’re husband can do it to, mommy, and you can’t.” (Thank you, three-year-old).

These three are the joy of my life.  They really are.  And yet, they all need very different things from their mama right now, and I have certainly had my moments of despair at the incapability I have to parent each one of them well.  Harper wants anyone within twenty feet of her to watch her show and listen to her stories, and she needs a hard line of discipline to know that her strong will is a gift but it has a limit that must be respected.  Cannon wants one on one time and his own space to learn, and he needs encouragement and correction in a much softer manner than his sister does or his sweet soul will break rather than repent.  And Jordi, he just needs me: a breast to eat from, hands to change a diaper, eyes to make sure no one pulls him off his boppy pillow, and ears to listen for the rise and fall of his lungs as he breathes. But sometimes, most of the time, all three of these precious babies need these things at the very same time.  And I can’t.  Someone has to wait, and no one wants to wait.  And if the wait gets too long then all four of us are crying and that looks about as bad as it sounds.

But here’s the thing: I have never loved being a mom more than I do today.  God has so graciously and tenderly given me a heart for the training and stewardship of my babies that I just did not have a year ago.  I have always loved them, but I have not always seen this job as the job, the work of my life.  Motherhood, quite by accident, became something that I had to “finish” in order to get other things done: like writing an essay, grading papers, prepping a lesson plan, finishing a task around the house, or something really important, like posting the perfect caption to my instagram picture (obviously that is a joke.  Not the part about picking my phone over my children for moments at a time, the part about it being important, that’s the joke.  It just took me far too long to realize the joke was one me.) 

On my worst days, I saw my kids as in the way of these things.  You would probably never say that about me, though.  It was more of a heart condition than an outward action.  But that’s the sweetest thing about the Holy Spirit: he loves to gently correct the heart.  Good behavior done with bad motives is not good behavior at all; it is people-pleasing and box-checking (story of my life!) and God sees right through that.  We don’t want that for our children, and God does not want it from our parenting.  As I learned this, God began to strip down my goals for motherhood from healthy, happy, successful, smart, kind, articulate, brave kids to just this: sinners saved by grace.  That is all I could ever hope and pray for my babies.

So while I am exhausted and many days feel in way over my head, I am so full.  Did you really give me these three souls to steward for a lifetime, Lord?  He did.  My joy is too big for words here.  And I feel the weight of this blessing in a new way since Jordi joined our family.  I am not capable of motherhood.  It is a job far too big for me, because I default to worry, anxiety, frustration and an utter lack of patience at every turn.  But I am capable of calling on Jesus, and he is so happy to show himself glorious where I am the weakest.  I know that that will be the story of my parenting, one day after another of Jesus saving the day.