The lake was frozen. The sun was shining. The kids were slipping and sliding and grinning from ear to ear. 

With three young ones, the days can be long. Their needs are great and at every moment some little face is relying on you for something.  But the days are also fun.  We play, and no one can tell us not to.  We laugh, because we don't always have to use library voices.  We blow off naps because mom is the boss and she says the sun won't always be out in the middle of winter like this.  And these three young kids, well, they won't always be young.  So while they are, I'm doing my best not to miss it. 

Winter, you're winning me over just a little bit.    

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. 

A walk to the donut shop changed everything.

During a visit to my hometown in California, my friend, Trisha, and I were pushing our kids home in strollers, casually talking about motherhood and balance and all the things on our minds about raising babies.  At some point in the conversation, Trisha shared about her sister and the beautiful natural birth experience of her third baby a few months prior.  I had not verbalized it to anyone other than my husband, but I really wanted something like Trisha was describing for my third pregnancy.  It was a desire born from a mix of stories and research and, without a doubt, a sense of pride and accomplishment on my end.  So I asked her what made it all so great for her sister.

“Well, she prayed; not that she wouldn’t feel pain or that everything would go perfectly.  She prayed over her fear.  She spent the months leading up to her baby’s birth asking God to increase her faith, and it showed in every way as she had her baby.” 

She gave her fear to God. 

It was a truth I held on to in my heart, not knowing how much it would change everything a few months later.

____________________

The contractions began on Sunday evening, just as Alex and I were preparing for our small group’s chili feed.  They were not very strong and didn’t last more than a few seconds, and I had already had at least one false start the day before so I was not getting my hopes up that they would turn in to anything.  It was 5:00pm, we had a place to be, and our doula, Sarah, had encouraged me weeks before, even if I thought labor was starting, to keep going on with normal routines as long as I could.  The contractions continued slowly but surely throughout our small group, and they remained consistent as I got in bed.  But they were not that bad, so I really did not think much of anything. 

Until around midnight, when I was finally uncomfortable enough that sleep was difficult.  I woke up and starting timing the contractions, which were anywhere from 5-15 minutes apart for the next three hours.  Still, I was able to breathe through each one without too much strain, and around 3:00am I had the thought that if this was going to turn in to the real thing I had better try to sleep a little bit.  I got back in bed and rode out the night, thinking surely we would be heading to the hospital soon.

By 6:00am… nothing.  Radio silence.  No contractions.  No cramps.  Nada.  I felt totally defeated.  And I was just so tired.

____________________

The weeks leading up to Jordi’s birth were full.  Not merely busy: I don’t mean that we had so much to do or so many commitments to fulfill that I just got too over-scheduled to think about having a baby.  I mean that they were emotionally packed, bringing with them a mental and spiritual load I did not know how to carry. 

First Aylan’s little body washed up on the beach, and for a brief moment the world’s collective heart, mine included, broke for the plight of the refugees.  A few weeks later there was a mass shooting at a community college in Oregon—I should say another one, as these are devastatingly becoming common news.  Then it was terror in Beirut and Paris, events that brought a hovering anxiety that we all feel.  A few days after that a terrible windstorm swept across my state, taking out more than half of the region’s electricity for several days as it did.  And in the midst of all this, I battled some very real anxiety about who I am as a wife, mom, writer, activist, and friend; the kind of anxiety that, mixed with 37 weeks of pregnancy, makes you toss and turn uncomfortably all night until you finally give in at 4:45am and just get out of bed. (Related: I also fought 15 days of a sinus-turned-ear infection, which brought no shortage of drama on my end- like the night I woke Alex up at 2:00am and told him I was dying… from an ear infection.  And I was serious.)

I sat with these things every day.  I wrote about them.  Prayed about them.  Raised money for them.  Lost endless hours of sleep over them.  And as my body was very obviously growing more and more ready by the day to give birth to a baby boy, I no longer knew how to hold the tensions I could not escape, and the feelings that came with them.

____________________

At 6:00am on November 23, I made a cup of coffee and sat down at my desk.  My body was longing for a rest that for all of my effort I could not force to come.  But here is something that is always, always, true, even when the feelings are against us to believe it: God is so good to us.  And in what felt like a bit of a hopeless moment, he led me back to him with eyes more fresh than I had allowed them to be in the weeks leading up to that morning.  I pulled out my Bible, Matthew Henry commentary and sharpie pens (I’m rather particular about the sharpie pens). And as I read and wrote out my reflctions on God’s word that morning, I felt strongly—overwhelmingly— to stop and pray.  Not just for my baby, but for my own heart toward God’s timing and what it really means to become a mom of three littles in a world that feels as scary as this one. Those prayers were from a depth of my heart that the combination of stress, anxiety, and an ever-present need I have to do something about it all had kept me from.  I wrote about this new season I am entering and repented of the ways I had neglected preparing my heart for Jordi.  And in the process, I realized what had happened, and it was the exact thing I needed…

I gave my fear to God.

____________________

I spent that morning playing with my bigger kids, making breakfast, tidying up, all the usual things.  I would have a contraction every now and then, but they were so sporadic I was not even timing then.  I was not thinking at all that labor was imminent, and for the first time in weeks I was not anxious about it.  I felt total peace about God’s timing, and I kissed the cheeks off my other two kids all morning, so very thankful for their lives. 

Then around noon, the contractions began again. But before you think I am a total idiot for not realizing what had clearly been going on for 18 hours at this point, I just have to say again that they were not that bad.  I texted with my doula, who encouraged me to keep timing everything, but to rest as much as I could.  Alex got ready for work, but about 15 minutes before he was supposed to leave I had two strong contractions in a row and asked him to stay home, more to help me with the kids than to get ready to go to the hospital, which I was still not convinced was where we should head.  I tried taking a nap, but by 3:00pm the contractions were… well they were happening.  At 4:00pm, we decided that it had been a long almost-24 hours and this was either a really intense few days of Braxton-Hicks or I was going to have a baby soon.  Alex and I got the kids set up at my mom’s house, and I cried saying goodbye and looking at Cannon, knowing he would only be my baby a little while longer. Then we hemmed and hawed back at our house a bit more because what was the hurry?  THEY WERE NOT THAT BAD! 

Until the drive to the hospital, at which point they were getting a little bit bad.  And three minutes apart.  There was also an unusual amount of traffic even though I live in a city that never, ever has any traffic. Of course there was.  We finally got to the hospital and in to triage at 6:10pm.  Katie, our amazing labor and delivery nurse, was checking the baby’s heart rate and asking me a few questions.  She could tell I was exhausted and her demeanor was encouraging from the very beginning.

Then she checked my progress and her eyes grew both wide and happy.  She smiled at me and said, “Wow, mama!  You’ve been working hard today.  You’re 8 centimeters dilated.  Are you ready to have this baby?”

Surprise. Relief. Motivation.  All those things washed over me.  Alex grabbed my shoulder and kissed my forehead, and just kept saying “Babe, you’re amazing!” and “We’re going to meet Jordi tonight!”  I was totally prepared for them to tell me this was false labor and send me home.  But then to know how far my body had really come gave me a new energy.  8 centimeters, I got this. (But also, how could I have possibly been unsure that I was in labor.  Cannot answer.  I was just so tired.)

And as I walked back to room 2035, I knew what to do above everything else: I gave God my fear once again.

The on call doctor met us in our room.  He was amazing, and immediately started joking with me about why I waited so long to come in. 

“Well, I did not think I was really in labor."

He chuckled, with the slightest bit of hesitancy, because as a third-time mom surely I should have known what a real contraction felt like.

“Well, you are.  And you’re not going to be here long.  Third baby, 8 centimeters, this boy will be here real soon.  You made my job too easy tonight!” And then he gave me a reassuring smile, made sure I did not want an epidural, and said, “I’ll see you soon.”

For the next hour and half, my little team of five in that room labored together—at least that’s how loved I felt.  Alex held me up through the really hard contractions.  Sarah, my doula, was right next to my face breathing with me to help me not lose control.  Katie, world’s greatest L&D nurse, was willing to get on her hands and knees (and did!) with the Doppler to check Jordi’s heart rate—she accommodated me and whatever position was most comfortable every step of the way.  And Sarah G, our friend and photographer, was there to capture the whole experience for us.  Everyone in the room was so encouraging, and they made it easy to laugh and chat between contractions. I couldn’t believe I was really going to have a baby, because, one last time, It just wasn’t that bad.  I mean, it hurt, but then it didn’t.  I had an incredibly supportive husband, our doula was right there helping me keep control through each contraction, and Sarah (the one with the camera) kept telling me I was beautiful.  Believe it or not, you do want to hear that in labor. It was a dream team.  The blessing of their presence is not lost on me.

And then around 7:30pm, it got hard.  Real hard.  I’m told that almost everyone who gives birth naturally has their “Why did I…” moment.  This was mine. A timeline may be most helpful here:

12:00pm-5:00pm: this is not that bad.

5:00-6:00pm (drive to the hospital): well, this is uncomfortable.

6:00pm-7:30pm: rather uncomfortable, but with new energy not terrible.

7:30pm-8:00pm: oh man, I should have gotten the epidural. Absolutely should have.

8:00-8:10pm: worst decision ever.

8:10pm is when things got crazy.  As I lay on my left side on the bed, Katie checked my progress again.  “Sweetheart, you are still about 8-9 centimeters, but the baby’s head has dropped much lower so you are close.  He needs to turn is head to fit out, and I think a few more contractions will do it for you.  You’re close.”

Immediately another contraction came that had me gripping the rail of the bed and letting out a low, steady yell.  Alex, who had been relaxed and encouraging the whole time tried to calm me down, but he could tell I was starting to lose it.  And less than a minute later, another contraction.  This was the one.

8:10-8:12pm: I am dying.  What else could possibly be happening other than my body is being ripped in half from the inside out?

And then I felt a baby.  For real, the baby was coming out and I could do nothing but scream like a wild animal.  Katie, who was still standing at my legs, held up my right leg, yelled, “Get Dr. Pak!” and told me not to push.

Whoever was actually in my body at that moment (because it could not have been me making the sounds coming from that room) screamed, “I can’t stop!  I can’t stop!”  I could feel Katie holding the baby’s head, but I’m telling you, there was nothing I could do.  I felt zero control; my body was pushing this baby boy out on its own.

And then there was Alex, who three minutes before was encouraging and calm, and at this point had wide eyes, no words, and just put his hands on my head in desperate prayer.  He didn’t even know why I was yelling “I can’t stop!” until he stood up and looked at Katie holding the top of a baby’s head in her hand.

The doctor ran in, put gloves on, and seconds later caught my baby boy.

Jordi Daniel Blackburn.
November 23, 2015, 8:13pm.
6 lbs, 10 oz.

8:13pm: total relief, no pain, and an incredible high.

It all happened that fast.  My baby boy was on my chest and making the beautiful sounds of a newborn cry right away.  Grace upon grace, that’s what that moment feels like.

____________________

Now I am a mom of three.  And in his short three weeks of life Jordi has already helped to teach me the most important lesson:

Give God your fear, mama.

Give it to him today.  Give it to him tomorrow.  Give him your fear every day, because if you’ll be brave, then I’ll be brave, too.

Thank you, my sweet Jordi Daniel.  I’m so glad you’re here.

With so many thanks to Trisha (and April!), for just being who you are.
My doula, Sarah Green, for being confident when I wasn't.
My friend, Sarah Graczyk, for being extraordinary with a camera but even more with your heart.
And my husband, for fighting for me on November 23rd... and every day.

I'm so crazy about you, Harper Kristin.

Dear Harper,

It would be impossible to list the ways you have changed me.  We were not planning on you, your Dad and I.  We were thinking about finishing school and building resumes and saving money and then one day two pink lines changed all of that.  But you know, Harper girl, I think that’s just the way God wanted it to be: a lesson in parenting that I needed to learn from the very beginning— because since that day, you have not stopped surprising me.

To tell you the truth, I think I had a lot of expectations about what it would be like to have a daughter.  And I’m sorry about that.  Those darn expectations will get you every time, and they’ll tempt you toward the idea that something is wrong when reality is not just what you thought it would, could, or should be.  We’ve thrown those darn things away in our relationship; they have never really worked for us.  I expected meek and mello, you are strong and decisive.  I expected compliant, you are a natural leader.  And Harper, I think I expected being your mom to be easy.  I really did.  A little discipline now and then, but mostly a journey of smooth-sailing from here to eighteen, on to college and beyond, when we would be best friends forever. 

But sweet girl, being your mom is the hardest job in the world, and let me tell you why: because I love you so much it could break me.  Every single day, I look at you and ache just the tiniest little bit, because the gift of being your mom is just so big, so weighty. And sometimes I fear I might fail you, hurt you, disappoint you, let something happen to you, misdirect you, speak harshly when you need grace, or give grace when your heart needs truth.  And I care so deeply about your heart, Harper girl.  I care about that more than anything else.  And this business of tending to little souls is enough to really weigh a gal down.  But this is motherhood, in all its wonderful, humbling glory.  You gave me this role first, and you are the one who is teaching me how to live it.  It is a journey we both need grace on. 

The thing about you is that for every moment of strong-willed tension, you give me ten moments of unstoppable laughter.  For every disappointing start to the morning, you give me dozens of great afternoons.  For every defiant “no” spoken, you say a hundred times “I love you, too!” and “You’re my best friend, mommy!”  You are what the books might call spirited and I don’t disagree with that.  But I also know a book can’t label you, Harper.  You are just my Harper.  You spoke in full sentences at 18 months and you have not stopped telling fabulous stories since then.  You can already kick a soccer ball with both feet and this gives your mama joy unending!  You certainly know what you want and sometimes we have to slow down and talk about those things, but Harper, you are always quick to apologize and want to put your head on my shoulder when you do.  Never lose that conviction to be repentant, Harper, we need it our entire lives.   You are big sister twice over already, and a great one, I might add.  You love being a doc-trinarian to your stuffed animals and you know your colors in Spanish perfectly.  You run fast, you jump into water without fear, and you know how to hug.  I love your hugs, and I know a good number of people who feel so special when you see them across the room and yell their name as you run toward them for an embrace.  You’re really good at that, Harper.

Today is your third birthday.  That seems both impossible and just right, like we have had you in our home forever but you are still my baby girl at the same time.  Our lives together have been full of paradoxes like that, haven’t they? 

To the girl who made me a mama, the one we named Harper Kristin after a brave writer and a special woman with a genuine love and heart for Jesus, Happiest Birthday, sweet girl.  I just can’t imagine who I would be without you.  Every bit of how God made you is so perfectly crafted to fill a role in the world only you can fill.   I cannot wait to cheer you on every step of the way.  You are so prayed for and so loved— and every day God gives me with you those things will be true.  Thanks for teaching me so much, Harper.  This job of being your mom makes me need Jesus more, and that makes me better.  And truthfully, it is also my very favorite thing in the world.  Love you right up to the moon and back.        

Thanksgiving Day.  Today is the first morning I am waking up back in our house to a family of five, and the sweet, almost poetic gift of that timing is not at all lost on me.  There are five of us now—it is more joy than my heart can hold.  My three day old is swaddled in a cozy blanket sleeping next to me, and as I listen to his tiny squeals and watch his face move along to the rhythm of his dreams, I just keeping thinking that it was so lavishly good of God to start all of life out with babies, wasn’t it?

Growing up, Thanksgiving was mostly a “second place” holiday to me—more of a placeholder between the rest of the year and Christmas than anything else.  But that changed the year I married Alex, when I finally learned to sit with gratitude for what the total of my life really was rather than simply acknowledging a list of things for one day and moving on.  I wanted to be so intentional about thankfulness that I refused Christmas music and decorations until Friday morning (a tradition I still hold to because one holiday at a time works best for me). 

And today, just four short years later, I’ve been given the gift of teaching three little hearts that the practice of being full of thanks truly was meant for each day.  Grateful people are the best kind of people, aren’t they?  They have a contagious wonder, a humble posture towards others, and a joy untouchable by circumstances.  That’s what I hope for my people.  Together, as much as anything else in the world, I want our little tribe of five to be a family who lives out the joy of being loved by a perfectly selfless Savior and an amazingly big God.  I want us to say out loud how grateful we are for all that we have, knowing full well that our lives are rich in every way.  And because I know as we navigate this life together that the first thing the world will try to strip from each one of us of is the belief that we have all we need in Jesus, I want the foundation of our home to be the truth that “Surely, God is good…” (Psalm 73:1).   

I just can’t stop looking at the faces around me this morning.  My eyes are heavy with fatigue, my breasts are swollen with oncoming milk, and my body is insecurely figuring out how to put the muscles of my core back together since our little resident made his exit Monday night.  Still, I feel like I could run a marathon every time I kiss one of these six soft cheeks.  And my man?!  I just don’t know how to talk about him with the right words today.  The humble rock of our family who physically held my body upright through every contraction three days ago and is currently getting cups of chocolate milk for the two little babes still wiping sleep from their eyes: his love for us alone is worth a hundred years of giving thanks.    

Today we will do what so many of you are doing: we will eat turkey and gravy with homemade rolls, justify sweet potatoes with brown sugar as a vegetable, and talk with our littles about the meaning of this day and all the things we are thankful for.  We will pray for our family near and far, and we ask God to hold tightly the people who are hurting and lonely.  We will celebrate so many things that God has done and look forward with anticipation to all that lies ahead.  Today, we will stop and remember with new eyes that indeed, everyday is for giving thanks.   

"What can you do to promote world peace?  Go home and love your family."
-Mother Teresa

Life is so full, isn’t it?  We plot out our schedules and our days and we pack them with the things that are most important.  I tend to wear “busy” like a badge of honor, equating productivity with importance or, perhaps more damaging in the long run, a full schedule with a full heart.  But these things are misleading.  Busy and full can be amazing seasons, but they can also be the most draining and leave us with that all too familiar feeling of accomplished-emptiness.  You know, the one where our list is checked and we got what we wanted and we did the thing we said we would do… but now we sit discontent until we can busy ourselves again. I am the guiltiest person on earth of this.  I need a list and a few goals and darn it, I will get them done.  And here I am, expecting a little boy any day now, but when I get really quiet and really honest with myself, I know that my heart has been full of other things.

My third little baby is going to be born in the middle of a violent, chaotic world.  Last week it was Paris and Mali, but just a few weeks before that it was a community college in Oregon.  For four years it’s been an escalating crisis in the Middle East that we as Americans can no longer avoid dealing with.  And daily it is another battle of words and opinions and vastly different interpretations of history and how we got here.  And I feel all of these things: every little girl raped or sold, every Syrian putting their family in the ground far too soon, every orphan who desperately wants a mom to rub her back, all the people who need just a little bit of a hand… and I am sitting here in my warm home looking at all I have thinking that I cannot just sit here. 

Then my belly moves.  And I am reminded that every so often, I can.  And I should.

Do you know what I was doing as I was waiting for Harper, my first, to be born?  I was writing her a book.  Yes, I set the bar a smidge too high on that one and set myself up for a few conversations with my boys about how I love them just the same, I know this.  And if it weren’t for the serious nature of how much God has rocked me to my core in the last few years, I might laugh at how very different my first and third pregnancy are.  As I’ve been waiting for my third baby, I have spent more nights unable to sleep than I can ever remember, thinking about the girls taking their clothes off for strangers or the people forced to flee their homes and how we can raise money for them.  And I believe these are good things to be burdened for—we are supposed to be burdened when we see hurting.  But there is something I have not done enough of in preparing for this baby: I haven’t been simply sitting with him, guarding my heart against anxiety and unbelief the very same way I want to guard each one of my kids’ hearts.  And every day, more and more, I am realizing just how vital that is.

This weekend, my sweet friends celebrated my little boy with me.  They served brunch and cold brew, and wrote out words that they would be praying for us in this season: all of my very favorite things.  I felt so known and so seen by them, and my goodness, is there a sweeter thing we can do for one another than make them feel that way?  But as I opened a few gifts that, despite my objections, friends brought anyway, I also felt something I’ve really been missing: I felt peace.  And as I folded up the soft blankets I will very soon be wrapping a baby in, I realized how much I have missed that feeling.

Motherhood is the best work I get to do.  The very best.  My full of fire little three year old girl, my tender and quiet eighteen month old boy, and my soon to be sweet newborn son: my first life’s work wrapped up in three little souls.  I can so easily and unintentionally treat these hearts more like a to-do list than a calling, especially when it feels like the work to do in the world is growing by the second.  But that’s not the mama I want to be. 

I’ve been praying for my babies all morning today.  No emails.  No checking boxes.  No long-term writing plans or brainstorming on sticky notes.  No newspapers.  No headlines.  Just scripture and prayer for the people right in front of me.  I want them to see a mama fully engaged with and devoted to building God’s kingdom both in my words and my deeds.  I want them to know me as a teacher and a writer and maybe even a big dreamer.  But mostly, I want them to see a mama who was absolutely crazy about them.  Every day, no matter what the hours brought us.  So as we wait patiently to become the Blackburn five, I’m praying for a heart that is more than content, in fact, overwhelmed with joy, right here, wrapped in our soft blankets. 

I sat down and opened my journal this morning, but the pen moved slowly.  The little globe on my desk shows me Africa, Asia, and Europe right now, and I am reminded of just how big this world is, while at the very same moment I feel a little baby kicking inside of me and I feel like the whole world is right here.  How is that possible?  And how many mamas are thinking the very same thing this morning?

I’m wondering how the French mothers who buried their adult children this weekend are grieving.  I’m thinking how on earth are the Syrian and Iraqi and Afghani mothers surviving as they rocked a colicky baby in the freezing temperatures of the refugee camp all night.  I am up to my neck in the shepherding of little hearts in my own home, a job I consider to be the privilege of my life, and yet all that echoes in my head as I read and see and watch the world is How long, Lord, how long?

Because the truth is this: I want to face every reality of the world, but I don’t know how to hold this fear.  When my pen finally moved across the blank lines of my journal, here’s what came out: “How will I raise my sweet babies without creating in them a sense that they will always have something to be afraid of?”  I don’t want that for them.  I want a life laced with joy and covered in graces, with a touch of Pinterest decorating our home and making an appearance on each holiday table setting.  Don’t we all?  Life is so much easier when I can just think about those things.

But I can’t just think of those things.  None of us can anymore.  The fear is too close, happening too often, and so much of it is too astoundingly representative of what God said would happen.  I wonder if a lot of us are looking around thinking that the easy, me-centered faith we’ve been living here in the West is not holding up to the kind of faith modeled for us in all of scripture.  The latter is a much bolder faith.  It is willing to risk anything, and it is stripped down of everything in the world except a perfect Savior and his death on a cross for our sake.  It loves big and believes in grace, but perhaps most importantly, it knows that there is nothing on earth worth keeping compared to the surpassing greatness of knowing Jesus.  Just ask every single one of the eleven disciples of Christ who did lose their lives to spread the gospel to the ends of the earth.  What were they most afraid of?  It seems to me the only thing they feared was holding in the truth they knew would change everything.       

Friends, I know I am the least qualified person on earth to write this.  Because y’all, not only am I not a Bible scholar, but I am afraid.  What will this sweet little boy in my belly face in his lifetime?  I cannot confidently answer that the way I really want to.  But here is what I know and what I am trying desperately to remind myself of today: The enemy’s greatest weapon against us is fear, but that is really all he has.  Because the fear is what will paralyze us and make us question our good, good, God.  Make no mistake, our adversary is not really after our homes, our careers, our families or our 401Ks—although many of us might see it that way.  Those things mean nothing to him; he knows good and well the temporary nature of this world.  He is after our faith in Jesus, and he will chase it down relentlessly with fear.  And this morning, as I tremble a bit to write this, I truly believe our job as mamas and followers of Christ is to press in to our faith more than ever.  Our God has always known the condition of our hearts would be bent towards fear, so he wrote a Book spanning history that tells us again and again we don’t have to be, and the empty grave proves it.  He has reminded us that our lives are a breath compared to eternity, and we can confidently live with that perspective.  And mama, be assured that God knows the fierce love and protection we feel over our children.  When we cry watching them sleep, He knows that feeling even though our words can’t describe it.  When our hearts burst with joy when they say their first prayer, He gets it.  And when our anxiety goes through the roof at the thought of anything ever happening to them, friends, He understands.  And his response was written generations before any one of us felt this beautiful weight of motherhood: “Point those babies to me, remind them of all I have done, teach them my words every hour of every day, pray and don’t ever stop, and remember that when you feel fear, that is not from me, because I gave you a spirit of love, power, and a sound mind, and mamas, never forget that I AM.  And I will be for your babies.  And I still will be at the end of this world, too.” 

As I am wrapping these words up, the sun is peeking out over the mountains to the east of our home, and you know, it just seems fitting for God to give a sunrise right in this moment.  He is near, friends, and we can be confident that He is as just as He is loving.  Always has been, always will be.

Lord, be so near to our brothers and sisters in every corner of the world today.  God, don't let us stop trusting you, even when the fear feels too big.  You are the God of all nations, all tongues, all peoples, all history.  Make our faith bigger.  Amen. 

“And we have the prophetic word more fully confirmed, to which you will do well to pay attention as to a lamp shining in a dark place, until the day dawns and the morning star rises in your hearts…” 2 Peter 1:19.

This guy.  He is so mello, so content, and so fun to be around that I have given him the title “my easy child.”  (And yes, I already know this is wrong and children should not be labeled).  Cannon came into the world after only seven hours of labor and two pushes.  And since then, he has remained my low-maintenance baby boy—almost always happy, almost always pleased just to be around you.  I haven’t got a clue where the last eighteen months went, but the thought that this little guy is going to be a big brother in a few weeks is crazy.  I mean, it’s true, there’s no going back on that.  But it is crazy.

This morning I was a little more intentional than normal with my baby boy as we rocked in the cozy chair by the bay window—our usual morning routine.  He drank his milk and I ran my fingers through his hair (you guys, I challenge you to find an eighteen month old with better hair); we practiced our animal sounds and I clapped wildly when he showed me a lion roar for the first time.  And I said big prayers for him, that he would find his words and someday use them for God’s glory; that he would see his role in the world as a brave peacemaker; and that he would love Jesus and love others like He did.  I said these three things again and again, and then Cannon slid off my lap, grabbed his elephant toy, and off he went. 

Do you ever just watch your babies in their world?  I don’t do it enough.  I’m quick to let the little man slide off my lap and then go check my email or get breakfast ready.  But today, I just stared at him a minute, watched him pick up toys and put them back, determining for himself which one he really wanted.  I won’t get to do this kind of savoring forever, so today, I did.  And then, he caught me looking, and with the biggest grin and quickest feet he ran over to the chair and buried his head in my lap.  I think that’s what I will remember most about my Cannon, the way he buries his head when he’s happy.  The gift of this boy is truly beyond measure. 

This morning reminded me that, while there is so much work to be done—in our homes, building a career, or out in the world for others’ sake—my most important work is right here, in this chair, in moments like these.

Cannon Lee, I’m so thankful I get to be your mama.  I’m your biggest fan forever.