I was initiated into motherhood three months ago. Three months ago, my life changed forever on a sunny Saturday afternoon.
After twenty-four hours of the hardest work of my life, a midwife handed me this squishy, wiggly little thing who had been kicking me in the bladder for the past ten months. She was perfect.
Her head was really misshapen, but she was perfect.
Her eyes were nearly swollen shut from all the labor, but she was perfect.
She stuck out that tiny bottom lip, and all of a sudden, I was undone. But not as undone as I would soon become.
I was physically undone, ripped apart where she came and raw and bruised where she ate. I was emotionally undone, hormones rampaging my newly not-pregnant body. I was spiritually undone. Having this new relationship with my daughter meant I had a new relationship with my God.
And it was all just the beginning.
For months leading up to motherhood, the world tells you of the greatest joys and the greatest sorrows. You hear how you will never get any sleep ever again. You hear how your heart will now walk outside of your chest. You hear how amazing or how horrible breastfeeding is.
But nothing can capture it. Nothing can capture what it truly feels like.
Nothing can capture how helpless you feel when you can’t figure out why your baby is crying. No words can explain how heart-wrenching it is when your body doesn’t make enough milk for your baby or your baby would rather have a bottle than your body. Nothing can prepare you for the first time you feel frustrated with your child and then the guilt that immediately follows.
All at the same time, nothing can capture the joy you feel when those tiny fingers wrap around yours for the first time. No words can explain the sweetness of your child’s eyes looking up at you as they eat. Nothing can prepare you for the way your heart will explode the first time that gummy smile and those squinty eyes appear before you.
It’s hard and it’s easy.
It’s flawed and it’s perfect.
It’s convoluted and it’s simple.
And with all those emotions rolling around, I can’t help but be completely undone.
I’m undone in the hardest way.
I’m undone in the sweetest way.
I find this to be especially tough for we gals who like to have it all together. We who like to have all the answers. Who read the books, listened to the podcasts, went to the classes and still are completely unprepared.
But mamas. There is a solution. There is one who has it all together because He holds it all together.
He knit that baby in your womb, and He didn’t disappear when the umbilical cord was cut. He protects and provides for our families unlike we or our spouses ever could.
He was doing all of this long before we became mothers.
Our world is spinning and changing. It is unreliable. Crumbling around us at one minute and building us up at the next. It is full of mountains and valleys, famine and harvest.
And our days. Our days are brimming with crying and laughter. Our babies are restless then still. We are confident one minute and cowering the next.
He is steady.
He is immovable.
When waves crashed around Him, He walked on water. He commanded nature, and He can command our households.
When we are undone, He is steadfast.
And even more, He uses our undoneness. He teaches us through our weakness. He makes Himself known.
So cling to Him, you undone mama. Cling to His goodness, to His promises, to His unwavering presence. Your body will fail you at some point. Your knowledge will fail you at some point. You will not always be supermom.
But He is there to catch you. He is there to love your baby far more than you ever could. His blood was shed that you might not have to rely on yourself. His Spirit is bestowed onto His children that He could walk with them always.
He is there to mend you in all your brokenness back together. Not that we can then go off on our own, but that we would mother with Him surrounding us, holding us tight, never letting us go.