We are sitting pretty in the middle of the very best time of the year around these parts: summer. When you live in a four-season destination, the seasons themselves become verbs, universally understood and described by locals according to the activities we can and cannot do based on the weather. And right now, everyone summers: sprinklers, lakes, popsicles, baby sunscreen, red cheeks, s’mores, and 9:45pm sunsets. It’s all just dreamy. Ten months out of the year we more or less live our lives around school and work schedules. But summer in the Pacific Northwest rolls around and all of a sudden we work around our summer. The early, quiet, peaceful rhythm of the mornings makes the days feel welcome and full of potential; and the long-lasting sunsets have this beautiful way of helping me savor the day. When I really sit with all the goodness that fills this time of the year, it is impossible not to measure my gratitude in fresh ways.

And along with the change of pace, there is this new sense of possibility. The schedule-free weeks could be a time of rest, or a dedicated season of goal achieving; summer seems to offer whatever our souls need the most, doesn’t it? For me, the long-days are a mix of both: I read more, I write more, I see my people more in the summer. And yet, for the last two nights, I’ve poured myself a glass of Trader Joe’s sparkling limeade and taken a sunset bath after the kids are in bed. (I know, getting crazy around here!) I can count on one hand the amount of baths I have taken in the previous nine months. But once that blissful quiet of the post-bedtime hustle sets in over our home, and I look outside and see that the sun is still giving me permission to take in the day, I feel like I have to do something to honor it. So I do. We are in a really cool play all day, savor all evening cadence, and I like it.

This year, the gift of summer is refining me in so many ways. We have all adjusted well to my little guy’s therapy schedules, and we are learning, with the Lord’s help, to pan out on our perspective a bit more than we had been. It is certainly a day-to-day process, but progress is much more easily seen from start to finish, so we have to learn to hold both. Cannon is not saying more words than he was yesterday; but he is engaging with tasks and people 100 times more fully than he was two months ago. It’s always a battle for my faith, because I want to come home from each therapy session and say “He said two new words today!” But it is so much more encouraging to say, “He’s not in the same place he was when we started. He’s growing.” God continues to teach me more about Himself and his glory through my son than he ever has through anything else, and that’s not something I say lightly. It’s just true. And see? There’s that hustle then savor pattern showing up again right here, on this journey, too.

I’ve also been writing. A lot. I’m dreaming of a book and I’m actually walking in to that dream as best I know how to. I think most writers dream of the book they will one day write; I certainly have been my entire life. And yet, my efforts have always been stifled by the reality that anything I can say, someone else can say better. That, and I spent five years trying to force pretty words from my brain onto paper and I never got farther than a potential title. I once watched an interview with author Amber Haines, and she said of the book writing process, “Wait for the fire.” And right here, in the midst of motherhood that feels like it is drowning me some days, the embers are staying warm enough to slowly, but surely, grow. It has been the best thing for my heart to listen to Jesus every morning and feel my way towards him in words. And that’s what the book is shaping up to be about: Him, and the knowledge that he is unchanging and unspeakably beautiful even when life feels the opposite. This is the truth I am learning right now, so it’s the lesson I’m writing. (I must add that publishing and writing feel like two very different things to me. It’s all safe and controllable over here in the writing: me and my words, and a few sets of trusted eyes on them. It’s all vulnerable and unpredictable over there in the publishing, where thousands of writers offer their very best efforts every day, only to be told it’s not good enough. So, I don’t know what that looks like. I think I want to try, but when you write about Jesus you’re pretty much forced to measure success as a greater view of Him, and I already have that. So I guess I can say that this writing has been worth it, no matter where it ever goes.)

With two months of the best of the year still ahead of us, we are all looking forward to more of that summer list of sprinklers, lakes, popsicles, baby sunscreen, red cheeks, s’mores, and 9:45pm sunsets. And friends, lots and lots of friends. I’ve never been more inspired by and grateful for the people around me. Friends that are faithfully navigating hard marriages, thinking about returning to school, pursuing their own writing goals, raising precious babies and teaching them about Jesus, opening their homes and family to foster children; you name it, and I have people in my life doing it. It’s the best, seeing the body of Christ on display, doing the unique and beautiful things he has given each of us to do, learn, persevere through, pray for, and believe in.

Wishing you marshmallows, campfires, friends to ask good questions around them with, and the sweet cadence that only the summer can bring.

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

All good storytelling must come with a good beginning. It’s the hook, the grabber, the attention-getter that really gives us the stamina to stay in the story. It’s true when you read them; I think it is even truer when you live them.

*****

This story didn’t start six months ago, when we knew our sweet boy should be saying more, babbling more, mimicking more. It didn’t start on Christmas, when his zone out episodes were so pronounced they prompted a doctor appointment and an EEG as soon as possible. And the story didn’t start last week, when five ladies with clipboards watched his every move, noting where he failed and where he succeeded; when they asked me to fill out paperwork quantifying everything he does into never, sometimes, always categories. And the story didn’t even start when they told me there were “significant deficiencies present,” that a lot of therapy would begin immediately, but also that, “we don’t want to overwhelm you, so we won’t say more, for now.”

This story starts with our perfect God. Immeasurable. Incalculable. Incomprehensible. Every story starts with Him. And He is writing each one with the aim of pointing to his glory. Every single one. Even the ones I probably would have written differently; even my little boy’s story.

That doesn’t mean this is easy. In fact, watching my child struggle, hearing what people think, learning a new language and what it all means for our family, and fighting back the urge to explain to everyone who is around that my quiet two-year old is the sweetest two year old on the planet! is actually the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

I want to grab the ladies with the clipboards and tell them all the things he is so, so good at; how swings and slides and Dora make him the happiest boy on earth. I want to tell them that he’s fast, that he has his daddy’s running calves and I think he’ll probably set a state record in the mile someday. I want everyone to see him grab my face and give me a kiss, how he purses his lips and puckers up like he means it. I want everyone to watch him snuggle with me, because he loves to pull his knees up, tuck his arms in, and get cozy on my chest; the same position he spent the first few weeks of his life in. But I can’t get them to look up from their box checking, from the story they are writing about him. I know, it’s their job and we all need this, he needs this. But I cannot say this is easy.

It’s not easy when my little guy pinches and bites because he can’t yet say “no” or “mine” or any other toddler phrase to indicate he’s not ok. It’s terribly hard to explain to other mamas I barely know that he doesn’t have a malicious bone in his body; he is just learning how to behave with what he has in his tool box. My heart is screaming that I’m trying every hour of the day to help him fill that toolbox, I am! He’s a good boy; I’m trying to be a good mom, really! But that’s not what anyone wants to hear, not as they comfort their own child and examine the bite mark mine left. So I just apologize again and again, worrying too much about what they think. No, this part, the middle of the story, is not easy. Most good stories have some hard.

So I am reminding myself daily that every great story does not start with the hard, but with the Perfect. When the story starts with Perfect, we get a different story altogether; one that is never so hard that redemption can’t be woven through each chapter.  

I do not know what is ahead for my little guy. I know there will be challenges, and I expect more weeks of near-constant tears on my end. I know there will also be victories, that he will learn a new word and we will cheer him on like he won a gold medal. I anticipate a good week, then a bad week, then a madder-than-hell week and a bursting with gratitude week. I imagine a lot of repentance, and at times, a desperate longing for home… not this one. Aren’t we all longing for our real home, though?

But what I do know is that this story will end the same way it started: with our Perfect God. And I don’t want to miss one second of the glory that my little boy’s life might give to Him. Not one second. Who am I to wish away anything that would make much of Jesus? Isn’t that is what we are here for in the first place?

So no, the story doesn’t start with challenge, or diagnoses, or developmental delays and missed milestones. It doesn’t start with tears or feelings of failure. It doesn’t start with unknown or wondering or hoping and praying that all the therapy results in making up these deficiencies. It will include all of those things, and we will have to learn how to live each and every one of them. But they will all help us get to the ending, the Perfect ending.

The uncertainty of this story is both impossibly hard and going to be fine, and it is both of those things at the same time. I don’t know what will happen, but I know that the worst thing that could happen would be missing Jesus in all of it. The paradoxes of walking with a perfect Savior in a far from perfect world are many; there is a very real tension of wanting so many things for our children but wanting one thing for them above everything. But this story, this may be exactly how God is getting us to that one thing, to Him. To Perfect.

For each one of us, all of our lives are bookended with Perfection; a single sentence in the big story between Eden and a New Earth. And I can’t think of one thing that would make the in-between more worth living fully, for His glory, than knowing that.  

*A note from Katie: I prayed for three days before publishing this essay; it's a big deal to tell the world that your child, someone you love more than life, is struggling. But I've never known how to do anything in my writing but be honest, and when you stare at a good, good God for that long, every story that makes you cling to Him seems worth telling. We have no shame or stigma associated with Cannon's journey or the therapy he will continue doing; he is a happy, healthy, joy-to-parent little boy. And we just want God to get the glory for the perfect gift he has given us in our family.

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). 

Three years, three babies. Sometimes I cannot believe that myself.

I have been pregnant or nursing since March of 2012, and I can say with confidence that I was totally done having babies four months and two weeks ago. Done and done. I was too sick in the first trimester, and my varicose veins were too puffy in the third. I was exhausted and irritable, sleep was elusive, toddlers were needy, and I just knew that being pregnant again was off the table.

But, Jordi.

This third baby of mine is as sweet as they come, and he has been since the day he was born. In fact, I hardly remember life without him.

(I hardly remember anything these days, but that is a whole other thing.)

I think for every mama, there is “before and after” with every baby. I was one person before Harper, and another after. And I was one kind of mother as a mom to one baby and a different one when Cannon joined us. And now there are three, and I have never had to dig to such deep places of resolve in my life.

Three babies has meant a lot of things to me, the first and most obvious is learning to cope with the absence of sleep (amen, mamas?). I’m guessing the amount of times all three children have slept consecutively more than six hours since Jordi was born would be around five. Five nights in four months where no one in the house woke up for six straight hours. Sometimes I sure miss my college days.

And besides learning to operate with limited shut-eye, three babies has meant a minivan, and the most attractive display of me crawling over, through, and around seats to buckle the three-year-old in the back. It has meant a lot of time at home, because taking a chance that the big carts will be unavailable at the grocery is just too uncertain. It has meant we eat a lot of Panera and even more quesadillas, because the odds of all three children not needing something for thirty solid minutes between 3:30 and 5:00pm are slim to none.

Three babies has meant I do a lot of things I “never” thought I would as a mom: you want a third fruit snack? Fine. You’ve had your diaper on all day? Well it was only pee so you’re ok. Cannon has a sharp object in his hand? Well, I’m nursing a fussy baby so ‘hey three-year-old, will you just grab it from him and carefully bring it to mommy?’ (Kidding on that last one. It wasn’t that sharp of an object.)

Three kids has felt like a lot more than two kids. No more man-to-man defense. Sometimes more than one babysitter necessary.

But, Jordi.

Every time I pick this boy up I am reminded of joy: no small thing in our world these days. Jordi teaches me again about the unmerited blessing that a baby truly is, and of the sweet praise I want to sing to Jesus for each moment I have to be a mama. His chubby cheeks are gloriously kissable. He wakes up with a smile on his face, and loves to be tickled underneath his double chin. And when I sing to him, he purses his lips with the softest, sweetest coo, almost like he knows that melody is just for him in that moment and he’s telling me how much he loves it.

This fleeting season of motherhood is one in which I am stretched thin in different ways by each child. It’s hard sometimes, because anxiety and fear and the worry that I am failing are unwelcome friends of mine. But the good far outweighs the hard. I just love this job. I can’t do it alone, but Jesus is teaching me every day that I can do it with him. And my third baby, he has been everything I needed and more to truly learn that.

Maybe we are done having kids. I’ll answer that next year. Or maybe I won’t. I cannot imagine only having three, and I cannot imagine having four—so there’s that for clarity. But I know this for sure: my hands are full but my heart is fuller.

And I don’t even care that I’m ending on a cliché.

Good Friday. It is a day that, for followers of Jesus, is a bit of a misnomer. It is good, in the sense that it was the day our Savior turned over every right of his own to give them to us. It is good because we know that it is followed by the most miraculous event mankind has ever known: the resurrection of Jesus of Nazareth. It is good because without this day, there is no hope for humanity.

But in reality, this day was painful, it was scary, is was full of fear and it was, for a short time, a moment that darkness won.

The day began with betrayal. Judas, one of Jesus’ closest friends and followers, sold the love and trust built over three years for thirty pieces of silver and a brief moment of recognition from the people in power.

Next came an arrest, and a barrage of false accusations toward a man who refused to defend himself. When cursed, he took it. When insulted, he remained silent. When asked to give an answer as to whether or not he was the Son of God, his only response was, “You have said so.” No arguing. No throwing three years of miracles and testimonies back in his accusers face. Just the greatest display of humility the world has ever seen.

Then came the abuse. The whip. The crown of thorns. The spit and the mockery. And while his body was beaten so was his soul, as no one emerged from the angry crowd to defend him but instead gathered a collective strength to ask that a notorious prisoner be released rather than him.

In the midst of all of this was the pain and confusion of those who gave their lives to follow him. Mary, his mother, watched each drop of blood spill from his body. Peter, a loyal friend and follower, lost himself in doubt and fear and anxiety and three times denied ever knowing him at all. The rest of his small tribe of eleven may have been somewhere in the chaos of the crowd, but none emerged as defender, no one spoke up as an advocate.

Then came the darkness. For three hours in the middle of the afternoon, there was darkness over all the land before the moment that the agonizing cry of Jesus made an echo for eternity: My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? The sin and struggle of the whole world laid squarely on a man who deserved none of it, satisfying the justice of God, providing every man in history an answer for the condition of his heart.

Death won the day on Good Friday. It won with fear, it won with doubt, and it won with a brief moment of wondering, “where is our Savior now?”

I’ve been thinking a lot this week about how to talk to my kids about Easter. We picked out a cute dress for Harper and polo shirts for Cannon and Jordi. We will have an Easter egg hunt with Grandma and brunch with our family. We will tell the story to Harper with the help of our “Resurrection Eggs” and try to keep the tiny silver cup and crown of thorns out of Cannon’s mouth as we do. For now, these things will suffice. They will mark Easter as a special day in their little minds, and we will pray with growing fervor that the weighty truth of this beautiful holiday lands heavy in their hearts as they grow.

But cute dresses and colorful plastic eggs will not always be enough. Our best attempts at helping our kids make sense of these three days in history will always fall short if we don’t face the truth: we live in a world that feels a lot like Good Friday. The fear in our lives today is real; we are reading stories of innocent lives taken by bombs and guns and we cannot help but wonder where next, God, and who next? How long shall the wicked triumph? The doubt in our lives is real; we are both hearing and living stories of pain and injustice and a life far from that of Eden, and we wonder if our faith is big enough to get through it all. We are watching political rhetoric fall to the lowest level of dignity, if it even has any of that left. We see divisiveness at every turn even among our own families and communities, and a lot of us, we wonder all the time, “where is our Savior now?”

So much of life is a Good Friday kind of feeling.

Mary, Peter, the disciples, and many of the people who put their faith in a man who mystified the first-century world, they spent three days thinking the story ended on Friday. They saw their Rabbi, their friend, put to a torturous death. They had watched with terror and shame as an innocent man was brutally executed and I can only imagine that their grief clouded any ability to know what to do next.

But Sunday came. And we know that on Sunday, two women went to the most guarded tomb in history and found it empty. Empty. A boulder, Roman soldiers, weapons, and law on the side of the accusers, and the once-dead defendant walked out on his own, met the two awe-struck women on the road, and greeted them. 

We know that Jesus then met his disciples on a mountain in Galilee, and before instructing them to tell this very story to the whole world, he promised, “I am with you always...”

We know that the Holy Spirit descended on the small church of believers not many days from that promise, and under the power of that Spirit the first believers spread the gospel of Jesus throughout the ancient world. We gather in churches today, two thousand years later, thanks to the conviction of those brave men and women.

The people who were the most afraid on Good Friday became the most courageous after Sunday. The very same man whom they were afraid for their lives to speak up for became the savior they couldn’t stop talking about. Their fear turned to courage because of Sunday, because of an empty grave, because of an impossible truth: He is not here, He is risen!

The whole earth is groaning, longing for Eden again. It is easy for fear and doubt and wonder to cripple our faith, like they did the evening of Good Friday.

But friends, we also have Sunday.   

As I try to tell these truths to my children, I realize anew how powerful they are to me.

Because soon the little faces in front of me will be older, and I know at some point life will start to feel the Good Friday kind of hard to them, too. But I will tell them that we serve a good, good, Father. We know that he is trustworthy, and we know that his holiness is our hope. I will tell them that our lives are as short as a breath, but that we can tell a beautiful story of redemptive work in the time we are given. I will tell them that if this story we tell on Easter is true, then it changes everything. And if it is not true, not even the Easter egg hunt is worth it. And I will tell them that when it seems like death has won the day, remember that Jesus Christ won the world. Even when life feels heavy like Friday, we can live with the joy and boldness of Sunday. What amazing grace!

And then, because we never outgrow our need to be reminded that our faith is only in that selfless act on the cross, I will tell myself those very same things.

the official mug shot.

The whirlwind of the morning was starting to wear me down. In a mere thirty minutes my un-showered self and my tribe of three were supposed to be out the door, in the car, and on our way to church. Dad was volunteering at church that morning, so he was already gone, but we were going to show up kind and well-behaved and on time, ready with our “so good to see you!” smiles because, for the love, it was church! And church is for Jesus, so our good behavior counts extra there.

(No, it doesn’t.)

(But if I’m real honest I tend to act like it does, like if I can appear really “together” in God’s house then I don’t have to be quite as “together” outside of it.)

(But that’s another story. Let’s get back to this one.)

And then I saw it. The pink. Permanent pink, I should add. It was on the couch. It was on the table. It was on the walls tracking from the playroom up the stairs. Y’all, it was on my daughter’s English muffin, which traced it right back to the source.

“Harper, what’s on your hands?”

“Oh, mommy, I was just making cards for you!”

“Ok, well can I see your hands?”

Shyly, slowly, with the trepidation of a dozen excuses that she couldn’t quite find at the tip of her tongue, she turned her hands over.

Busted.

Ten fingers, perfectly dipped in a pink embossing stamp pad that mommy thought she had put high enough on the shelf. But is anything ever too high for a three-year-old? No. They have ninja like qualities we don’t even know about, and they are stealth enough to open the once out of reach goods as far out of eyesight as they can get from mommy, too.

But church, CHURCH! We are supposed to go to church now! And church is for Jesus, three-year-old! And that means we should act like him, dang it!

(You know where this is going, yes?)

I have to parent no more than one hour every morning before hypocrisy slaps me in the face.

I’ve been spending quite a bit of time lately with John Piper’s words. And as always, they are compelling—as beautifully crafted as they are powerfully convicting. One of the lessons that I’ve been working out in my heart is what Piper calls “a single, all-embracing, all-transforming passion: to glorify God by enjoying and displaying his excellence.” Enjoy God. Show Him to others. Piper says it is our aim to “joyfully magnify Christ—to make Him look great in all that we do.”

Here’s the thing, I read those words just two hours before the great ink-down in our house. And when I looked around at the pink that may or may not come off of the various surfaces ten little fingers had left it, I wanted to be mad. I wanted to yell. I wanted to shame my little three-year-old into a behavior that would make my morning easier, especially because we were going to church. I mean, didn’t she know that?!

But those words… enjoy God, show Him to others. The mirror of my own reproof spun right around, and all I could think of was my own heart. The correction from the Lord felt something like this:

Katie, don’t you dare enjoy Me just in the church lobby.

Or to earn favor among friends.

Or to scratch and claw for influence.

Or to be seen or heard or applauded.

Enjoy Me because I am God. Show Me to others because I am good.

And really, before you worry one bit about how your Christianity is displayed on the outside, know that I care so much more how it is displayed in your home. Show Me to your babies. Tell them how gracious I am, and live out what loving-kindness actually looks like. Discipline because you love them, but love them as you discipline.

This is your work today. These three faces, one with pink ink staining her fingers, are my sweet gift to you. Be glad in me so you can help them to be glad in Me, too. The hope of both of your lives is faith in Me. 

There are a lot of days that I feel like I am drowning in little people. And responsibilities. And dreams. And so many- mostly good- things. But I know that it is in those moments when it’s most important to ask Jesus to help me make Him look great in all I do. All I do. A deep breath, a prayer, and a gentle correction, then the whole trajectory of our morning is different. The role of mama was not given to me because I am good enough for it; it was given to me because God knew he was going to show me more of Himself in this way. And he is, every single day. My inadequacies- and they are many- remind me each hour that I need his grace, and that it will be enough.

“God made me a mother because he jealously and rightly desires praise for his own name, and this is how he saw fit to do it. God aims to glorify himself through our family, and we get to be carried along by his grace.” –Gloria Furman

“Harper, do you know what we get to do today?”

“What?!” she responded with enthusiasm, even as she wiped the sleep from her tired eyes.

“We get to go look at PRESCHOOL!” I said back to her as I sat down on the edge of her bed. And I don’t think I will ever forget what she did next.

With the full force of a three-year’s energy, Harper jumped straight up in her bed and broke out in song, gleefully stringing together a made up chorus of words that went something like, “Oh oh, hey hey, I’m going to see my school! Oh yeah, oh yeah! Preschool! Preschool!”

“Harper, we are just going to look at it. You can’t start school for a few more months. Now let’s get out of bed and get dressed. Maybe I can even comb your hair this morning?” I stood up and started toward the door, but she just kept jumping, blissfully unaware of the hair brushing comment, singing her little heart out.

“Oh oh, hey hey, I’m going to see my school! Oh yeah, oh yeah! Preschool! Preschool!”

Later that morning we pulled up to the church and headed toward the hallway where the current preschoolers were in class. Some were playing in the “discovery zone,” others were having their morning devotion, and still another class was learning about the ocean. Everywhere Harper turned, she was mesmerized. The paintings on the wall, the cubbies, the laughter, the kind teachers, all of it leaving my three-year old wide-eyed and speechless. She is never speechless, so this was notable. It took ten minutes for Alex and I to feel great about the school, but it had Harper at “hello!”

A few hours after our tour, the director sent me an email saying that they had a student move away a few weeks ago, and if Harper wanted to finish out the school year with them in the three-year old class that she would be welcome to do so.

Harper turned three in December, so technically she should start preschool in the fall of this year. But as I read that email and thought of sending Harper away three mornings a week, like, right now, I immediately thought back to my morning jumping bean.   

“Oh oh, hey hey, I’m going to see my school! Oh yeah, oh yeah! Preschool! Preschool!”

I think she is ready. Her little school bag looks far too big and just the right size at the very same time.

Not long ago, this day felt a million years away. These things always do; the seasons or events you know are coming, but the right now feels like so much to manage that the someday soon is hard to picture. Not long ago I felt like we had all the time in the world together: time to stay in our jammies, make cards for friends, put dresses on and pretend we live in a castle; or time to do nothing at all, and those have always been my favorite.

But she is taking a small step off on her own now. She’ll make her own friends and start to blaze her own little path, and both of those things I can’t wait to watch her do. But do you know what is the hardest part for me? It’s this: that someone else will be reading her books each day, holding her hand across the balance beam, giving her a hug when she falls down, or asking her to apologize when she makes a mistake. I’m jealous of that, if I’m honest. It’s always been my job to read, hold, hug, and talk about grace. And now I have to share it. This is right, and I know it. But gosh, the thought is hard on a mama’s heart, isn’t it?

We’ve had only 5 days to think about Harper going to school. But maybe it is better for me this way? You know, less time to come up with reasons to be anxious about it all. And I just keep telling myself this: Harper is ready. She loves everything about the idea of her preschool: the toys, the friends, and the carpet square with her name on it. And I am almost ready to let her go—though I’m certain another six months would not make me more ready. Is a mama ever really ready? I am not sure we are. Sometimes we just have to fake it a little.

I am thrilled for my girl. She is life and energy and joy in a three-year-old body, and watching her grow is one of my favorite things to do.

Go shine bright, Harper. So proud to be your mama.

“Our job is not to save our children. Our job is to teach them about Jesus, putting as much kindling around their hearts as we possibly can so that the Holy Spirit can come in and ignite the fire.” –Matt Chandler

I have no idea how to raise a child.

That was the hovering mantra of my life two years ago. Closing in on my third trimester with my second baby and watching my toddler turn in to her own person—a little girl with a Will (yes, capital W)— was a season of mostly fear and inadequacy. I watched other mamas, especially ones with little girls who seemed (much) quicker to obey than mine, and I did that dreaded comparison thing, dooming my children and myself to a lifetime of battle lines and tears. From mom. I was usually the one crying.

From the top of my staircase, looking down on a little girl who was supposed to be in timeout but had “no” on repeat at the top of her lungs, I just knew it could not go on like this. Our lives could not become day after day of defeats when I was less than two years in to parenting. That could not possibly be how God designed this.

But I also knew that he designed her, the precious toddler at the bottom of the stairs. And he designed us to go together. There was a way to navigate this journey and we were going to find it.

And you know, some days, I think we have. But the way has been a change in me, not in my kids. The way was getting back to God’s word, to the lessons He has always been exhorting in all of us, young and old. The way has been daily dying to myself and seeing motherhood as one of the primary means of sanctification in my life—the process through which God was going to show me how much I need him to ever become more like him. Figuring out how to be a mama has meant becoming more teachable, more repentant, more patient, and more humble while simultaneously becoming more confident in God’s word, more unshakable as I trust in His sovereignty, and more determined to know and love Him in front of my children.   

The way to parent has become, and will always be, more about my perspective than about my children. Motherhood did not get easier. There are still moments of looking down at my toddler from the top of the stairs, wishing she would relent and take the time-out so I don’t have to follow through on my warning to spank. And my son, my sweet, soft-spoken middle child, he was kicked out of church for biting last week. So, let’s not pretend I’ve got this under control. But the difference is that, two years ago, I was exasperated in moments like that, in circumstances when things were not going well and I did not have the answers; today I am prayerful. I see it as my blessed job to shepherd these hearts toward Jesus and not as my cross to bear to raise less-than-easily-compliant children. (Everyone is ­less-than-compliant. That’s why Jesus came in the first place.)

Motherhood is hard, but I don’t think it is supposed to be a life sentence of frustration. A few trusted friends and mentors spoke that truth to me again and again. (Oh, where I would be without my people, I do not know!) They validated the confidence that being in God’s word would teach me and change me and equip me to love even on the most sleep-deprived nights. And then when I would still fail, the grace of Jesus would cover the gaps. Because the law of God and the rules of our home only serve to reveal where our hearts are. Just like Jesus tenderly does with us when we sin, we can do with our children: go after their hearts.

I cannot get through one day of mothering my three littles without clinging to the gospel. Not one. That’s how often I mess this responsibility up. But the realization that the very best thing I can do is teach my children the gospel and pray that the Holy Spirit makes it come alive for them, that shifts my focus from the tough moment to the eternal glory. Game changer. My failure becomes a lesson in repentance. My children’s need for training becomes a teachable moment for all of us. And motherhood becomes the work, not the thing in the way of any other work.

Now I cannot give parenting advice to anyone. The thought is laughable. But I can give a (growing) list of resources that have helped me change the way I think about this work; things that have helped Alex and I put the kindling around the fire our kids’ hearts. Most of these came at the recommendation of people much wiser than me— which underscores the need we all have for community—and all of them have directed me to Jesus, then reminded me that my babies need Him, not just behavior modification. And that’s the goal: give them Jesus, at every opportunity, every day.

*No affiliate links are used here, these are genuinely resources that I love, and I hope you do, too.

The Bible
This is where God does his business with us. The more I fall in love with scripture, the more I fall in love with motherhood. It’s true.

Entrusted with a Child’s Heart
This is a Bible study/Parenting curriculum that my dear friend, Meghan, introduced me to. I have done the class twice. Would do it again in a second. It’s wisdom is biblical, practical, and tangible.

Mom Enough
Fully half of this book is underlined, but these words are some of my favorites: “I don’t want my children to treat God like a vending machine or a fire insurance policy. I want them to have a passionate love for God that is alive and outgoing, bowing to his supremacy and anchored gladly in his gospel. I want them to love God’s word and hold to it firmly in times of uncertainty. I want them to show Jesus to the world.” (Are you fist-pumping with me?!)

Treasuring Christ When Your Hands are Full by Gloria Furman
“Parental amnesia is when we forget about two thing: tomorrow and eternity… As mother’s we can so easily become fixated on the immaturity of these little image bearers, who show people their boogers, that we neglect to treasure them as reflections of God’s glory. In our noble efforts to practically raise our children to grow up to be adults, we often miss something. We miss the rising sun that signals another day of grace in which God has entrusted us with nurturing his little image bearers to love and honor him first and foremost.”

Walking with God in the Season of Motherhood by Melissa Kruger
An 11-week study, scripture saturated study on the sacred work of motherhood—and a ton of great reflections on ourselves as mamas, too.

Don’t Make Me Count to Three by Ginger Hubbard
This little book helped me more than I can say. Behavior modification was not working in our home, and the practical advice and great examples in this book helped begin a new language to use with our children.

Wise Words for Moms by Ginger Hubbard
A gift from my friend three years ago, this resource sat in a bin until about six months ago. My bad. Because when I found it again I realized something I did not when I received: it is gold. It now hangs on our refrigerator and we reference it daily in asking heart-probing questions to our kids.

Locking arms with you all as we raise a generation to love Jesus.

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.”