I am an angry mom.
Of all the things I thought I would be, this is not one of them. When I imagined motherhood, this isn’t how I thought I would handle its difficult moments. I knew it would be hard and that I would be challenged, but I never imagined that I would be capable of being this screaming, fuming terror in my own home.
A Bible with binding swollen from use and pages crinkled with ink and tears is open lying face up. There are notes written in scrolling, swaying letters in the margins marking lessons learned. Hear the prayers offered in low murmur from her knees – passion and pleading fills its tone. It is so full and rich I swell at its sound.
These are the sensations that mark nearly every morning of the childhood in my memory. My mama, bent over her Bible, bent into prayers, bent towards her Savior, broken but bound in Him. Morning worship, prayer, and meditation coming from a desperation for more, more, ever more of the Savior: more of His strength, more of His wisdom, more of His presence, more of Him.
This morning I threw a loaf of cinnamon bread in the oven, packaged up teacher appreciation gifts, dropped Claire off at school, and then spent a couple of hours at church with my ladies lifegroup eating and chatting.
And this afternoon I watched the girls play in the yard, sent them to the neighbor’s house to “help” her lay mulch, and then handled our very first bee sting. I have often been absolutely floored by the beauty of this Midwest landscape – spring gardens and autumn harvest! – and I have been even more overwhelmed by the sincere love of the people here.
I am afraid when my kids are riding in a car with someone else. I often have to actively push away worry over hypothetical scenarios where my children have cancer or my husband is given just days to live. If my girls are playing outside I can be debilitated by fear over a bug’s bite or a neighbor’s dog.
I am also a believer who loves God, who has given my life to Christ, and who seeks to serve Him in all that I do.
I love being a mom. These three girls have my whole heart and I wouldn’t want it any other way. But motherhood carries with it an amount of grief that can’t always be explained. Nevertheless, I feel the need to try.
This third time around I knew it was coming and that the monster would rear its ugly head at some point threatening my joy and taking me captive against my will. I knew what to look for, how it would feel, and what to do about it. Yet still the tears chase me down, sleep escapes me, and the air seems thin.
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