I dreamed of having a family ever since I was a little girl, playing with Cabbage patch kids and running through the schoolyard with my sister. And I always assumed I’d have no trouble starting a family.
I married at
age 23, bursting with newlywed joy over the man I’d met on a blind date. Over
the next nine years, I watched my friends have babies, went to baby showers out
of obligation, and finally was able to name the uneasy envy I was feeling.
Wayne and I were trying to get pregnant too, with no success.
We hated
hearing about anyone’s pregnancy announcement. I began to feel bitter and I
hated that too. I’d been battling epilepsy since the year we were married, and
I felt like the infertility was salt in a wound. Why me? Why one more burden?
Why so easy for all my friends and seemingly impossible for us? My spirit was unsettled;
I prayed in anger and hope at the same time.
As in so
many areas of life, the Lord was calling me to step up, out of my comfort zone.
There’s always adoption. But I rejected that thought; that’s something other
people do; I was surely not cut out for that.
But reality
was setting in: the fertility treatment wasn’t working, and the burning desire
for a baby wouldn’t subside. The idea I’d been trying to squash kept popping
up: What would it look like to adopt? Over many tears and gentle urging from
Wayne, I finally said yes.
With the
help of a Christian adoption agency, we learned the legal process and worked
our way through each overwhelming step. We created a book about ourselves, an
open door for a birth mom to choose us. It felt odd, like advertising
ourselves. We were told it would be a two year process, an unappealing thought
when we were so ready now! So we were thrilled to be chosen within two months,
and it seemed like a great match.
The birth
mom knew she was having a girl, so we prepared the baby’s room and were flooded
with gifts and baby décor from eager friends.
I was
swelling with anticipation, an excitement I hadn’t felt in years. Then two
weeks before the due date, my bubble was burst. Our adoption agent called to tell me the birth
mom had changed her mind. I felt it physically first, as the wind was knocked
out of me and I sank to my knees. I gasped for air and cried so hard I couldn’t
speak. Those tears would go on for days.
We knew
adoption came with this risk. Even after you take the baby home, there’s a
window of time where the birth mom can reverse her decision. But nothing can
prepare you for that.
Now I was
swelling with anger, not happiness. My spirit was crushed thinking about going
back to square one. We closed the door of the baby room and took a weekend in
the Colorado mountains to regroup. Day after day, I cried to God and prayed for
the right birth mom; I absolutely couldn’t deal with another one who changed
her mind. The thought made my stomach churn. The Lord was nudging me gently and
I knew He wanted me to forgive. It was the most un-natural desire at that time,
so I kept praying through it.
And the roller coaster continued. About a month later, we got a call. A birth mom was in the hospital with her newborn, in crisis, realizing she had no realistic way to support her baby. She’d thought about it off and on throughout her pregnancy, we later learned, and now we were the chosen parents.
We scrambled
together what we needed to take home our baby girl, 48 hours old. We didn’t
even have a car seat, so we borrowed one. I opened the door of the nursery,
trembling with the fear of another rejection.
Not this
time, though. The birth mom signed papers to expedite the legal process. That
little girl was ours and my joy was overflowing. It was another incredible
mixture of emotions, and extremely humbling to think about the tough choice
that young woman made.
My daughter Rachel is 7 now. There is no way to describe the joy she has brought us. I cannot fathom any other child being ours. People tell me she looks like me, and I just smile and think, the Lord had this covered. We do stay in touch with her birth mom and visit sporadically. We explained to Rachel very early that she was adopted, that her birth mom wanted the best life possible for her. That satisfies her curiosity now, and as she matures we’ll keep talking through it.
I have seen
much evidence of the Lord’s “beauty from ashes” promise over the years, but
perhaps none as powerful as our adoption experience. I would go through it all
again for the joy of finally becoming a mom.
About Suzanna:
Suzanna Price is a Colorado mom who loves Jesus and anything outdoors. She has a wonderful husband she met on a blind date, and they have walked together through many ups and downs including her battling years of seizures and the brain surgery that cured them. They have a seven-year-old daughter who loves reading, playing outside and camping. Follow Suzanna at her blog, on Facebook, and on Instagram.
It’s amazing what you can accomplish in 22 minutes. In 22 minutes, you can shower (no hair washing–that’s no longer a daily priority), get dressed and possibly even put on make-up. You can journal, read your Bible and contemplate the life and words of Jesus. You can clean the kitchen and maybe even sweep the dried up cheese and peas off the floor. You can (nearly) do a Jillian Michaels workout video. Or you can steep a cup of Bengal Spice tea, breathe in cinnamon, ginger, cardamom and cloves and sit down at your computer. Like I’m doing right now.
Why 22 minutes? You’ve probably already guessed. Only the best survival tool of motherhood: T.V.
With three children four and under, most days I feel like I’m operating in survival mode. Many days my husband and I grab each other by the shoulders in the kitchen, give those shoulders a shake, look one another square in the eye and proclaim: “You can do this. WE can do this.” Sometimes we even high-five. Lest I one day re-read this after gazing at pictures of my adorable children and wonder what the big deal was, let me explain.
My son never sleeps past 5:15 AM. Ever. (And YES, we bought the clock that turns green when it’s 6 AM–but we haven’t found a clock that forces your child back to sleep until they are supposed to wake up.) We wake up to variations of stomping down the hallway, our door squeaking, followed by, “Can I wake up now?” or yelling from down the hallway: “CAN SOMEBODY WIPE MY BOTTOM!?” Some mornings we have cuddles on the couch, but most days there is much shrieking, yelling, fighting and crying as my husband gets cheerios and raisins and situates the kids in front of the T.V. while he grinds the beans and makes us his home-roasted French press coffee (yes, we are coffee snobs–simple pleasures, my friends).
Every.single.event. is a battle. Who knew I would practically cry or throw my own tantrum every day over trying to get another human being to perform basic hygiene or reasonable habits? Brushing teeth, getting dressed, going to the bathroom, putting on shoes and socks and simply eating food are now events I need to mentally prepare for or else I will have a break down.
Mealtime with small children is the worst. Why do we bother giving them plates? The food spends more time on the table than on the plates and most days my son says “YUCK” after I’ve spent an hour cooking. And the crumbs. There are always–always–crumbs. Not to mention food smears, hidden “delights” and sticky railings. I smash cheerios into our cheerio-colored carpet on a daily basis. My son’s room has no pictures left on the walls (he pulled them all off and broke them), has crayon on the wall, a make-up stain on the carpet (from when they “borrowed” my foundation) and chunks out of the paint on the wall from when the glider chair became a carnival ride.
My children have very bad snot-management. It’s exactly as you imagine–and probably worse. I spend more time at the doctor’s office than I do with my closest friends.
Yes, they are cute and funny and say things like “tormado” for tornado, “nummy” for yummy and “bo-manna” for banana. There is love and laughter and hilarity in a way that I have never experienced before. Yes. But, mama who is in this boat with me–we know this is HARD. Here are some ways I am surviving–and even (in very small increments) thriving.
1. Monday Rituals.
My children take ONE bath a week (unless they are so visibly dirty that I’ll be embarrassed to take them anywhere). I am not usually a ritual-type of person, but this is saving me. On Mondays, we stay home. I put a load of laundry in, make an extra cup of coffee and herd the crew into the bathroom. I grab a book and attempt to read for as long as the baby stays happy flat on his back on the bathroom rug. Now that he’s five months old, I bathe him in the tub with other two. He splashes like it’s his job and the other two shriek and beg me to take him out. After this, we all put on “comfy clothes” and pull out their activity boxes and trays downstairs to do some simple non-pinteresty craft like gluing pasta or cotton balls onto construction paper.
2. The Children’s Museum.
We drive an hour to the Denver Children’s Museum nearly every week. It sounds crazy and like a waste of time, but I’ve discovered that this is the only way I can legally strap my children down for an hour while I listen to podcasts. At first I wondered about the morality of taking my children to a place where there were few rules and every part revolved around them. Then I discovered the freedom: Wait. A place I could take my children where I don’t have to tell them: “No!” “Don’t!” or “Stop that!” for an entire morning? Brilliant. This is the Christmas gift that keeps on giving–if you have a Children’s Museum anywhere within 60 miles of where you live, ASK FOR THIS FOR CHRISTMAS.
3. Exercise.
Fortunately, my husband doesn’t need to be at work until 9 am, so this is more feasible for us, but running for thirty minutes every-other day at 7 AM keeps me sane. I’m alone, outside and moving my body. But on snowy days, work-out videos on YouTube have also been a saving grace. Though they often get in the way (and more often get into mischief), these can be done with the kids in the room and they often try to join in.
On a morning run.
4. Nights out.
My husband and I schedule date nights at least twice a month. At times when money is tight, we go to Starbucks. On better months, we go for sushi or a movie. Last month we went barn dancing, which was cheap and so fun! Why don’t people dance anymore? This month, we realized that we can still bring our baby to the movie, which means we can stay out without the stress of wondering when the baby will wake up and need to eat. I also try and meet friends for coffee or a drink (now that I have a few friends–hooray!).
5. Hobbies.
Okay, so I don’t have much time for hobbies unless they involve my children since I am the stay-at-home parent. One of my hobbies is traveling, which happens um, never, now that I have children. So I’ve found a way to travel without traveling and have gotten involved in the International Women’s Club at the university near us. It meets the SAHM (stay-at-home-mom) criteria: during the day, before naptime, has other kids, snacks AND toys. I also love being outdoors, so I drag us all outside as much as possible. What do you love? How could you involve your kids in that?
6. Inventive Spirituality.
Sounds nutty, but it’s simple. Apart from the 22 minutes (or 44 … let’s be honest) that my husband and I have for quiet time in the morning, there is not a lot of space in my day for meditation, prayer or reflection. I am a part of a weekly Bible study, that I quickly do the DAY OF, but it provides the accountability I need to be in the Bible on a regular basis.
And I have a few apps and podcasts that help me think about spiritual things throughout my day:
You Version app: this has the Bible in many translations, but also has reading plans, devotionals and even devos and videos for kids. And it’s mostly free!
Laudate app: though I’m not Catholic, I have still loved this app. Here you can find daily readings, the liturgy of the hours, daily prayer, and a daily Bible verse. It was perfect for those early days of nursing when I was up at all hours.
The Practice Podcast: Better than a podcast and more than just a sermon, this podast provides a whole worship experience with a message, music and questions for reflection.
Pray As You Go Podcast: This is a daily prayer, scripture and meditation guide. It has been perfect for mornings when my husband goes on a run and I am preparing breakfast for my kids because we can listen to Scripture (often read more than once) and start our day in the right headspace. Thanks to Megan Tietz of Sorta Awesome Podcast for this recommendation!
7. Using My Brain.
This is a hard one when you live in Daniel Tiger World, but it is so necessary. I listen to podcasts any time I can, am in a book club and am involved in online communities related to racial reconciliation and social justice. I write to think (which is why I haven’t written as much these days …. when my body is tired, my brain stops working).
8. Trying to Be Sweeter.
I don’t have a saccharin personality. There was a good reason I was a middle school teacher not a primary school teacher. But I’m trying to sweeten up and learn the love languages of gush and snuggles. I’m trying to tune the tone of my voice so that I don’t always sound so eager, angry or frustrated. I’m learning to pretend I’m peppy.
9. Noticing Small.
Some complain that people use Instagram as a way to make their life seem perfect. I’m using it to notice the beauty in mine. John Updike famously said that he wanted to “give the mundane its beautiful due.” I’m striving to do this. I’m chasing beauty in my ordinary, mundane, boring life as a mom. And if Instagram helps me do that, then it is a worthy tool.
10. Permission to be Imperfect.
I can’t tell you how many times in the last five months I’ve had to rewash a load of clothes. And I think there is a direct correlation to how large your library fines are and how many children you have. My counters need wiping, the floors are strewn with toys, my bathroom looks like a science experiment and sometimes I strap my kids into their car seats in the garage long before I’m actually ready to leave the house. I let my children ride the toy horses at the grocery store five times as I check out (this is actually my most brilliant discovery yet–not only bribery, but one cent bribery!). BUT. They are clothed, fed, washed, and cared for. And even if I am sometimes merely surviving … they are thriving.
I need to remember that–and so do you.
You are doing good work, mama. You are loving the best way you know how with the time, energy and resources you have been given. And do you know what your kids are going to remember twenty years from now?
YOU.
They are going to remember that hike you took them on, the way you laughed at their jokes and tickled them until they couldn’t talk. They are going to remember the songs you hummed as you scrubbed pans and the way you smelled when you snuggled next to them in bed. They are going to remember the dance parties in the kitchen, how you let them help you make waffles and the way you prayed with them before bed. They will remember that you did the voices as you read, sat with them on the floor and chased bunnies together in the front yard. Mama, you are doing an amazing job. You do you. Keep up the good work. And don’t discount the value of a 22 minute reprieve (in fact, don’t feel guilty about that even for a second). Most likely, it is just the breather you need to make you an even better mama in the end.
What about a driving school for Muslim women? My mind buzzes with the possibilities, spinning the details into a feasible plan. I just dropped our Saudi Arabian exchange student off at the international terminal and in the quiet hum of the hour-long interstate ride home, I plan, strategize and dream. Most of the Saudi international student girls I’ve met have a secret desire to learn how to drive since they are not permitted to drive in their country. Likewise, they all complain about the expensive driving schools in the U.S. or about taking private lessons where they have to be alone in a car with a man. We have a spare car, I think. And I could give private lessons and get to know the women at the same time. Perfect …
As I turn the minivan off the interstate at our exit, I hear stirring in the backseat, then arguing, then shrieking. I sigh, smoothing the bunched-up shirt over my ever-growing belly, remembering. Lost in Imaginary Land where I could chase every dream, I had forgotten my reality: two children under four and a baby on the way. I tuck the idea away in the attic of my heart, thinking, If only …
***
Several months later, scrubbing potatoes by the window at the kitchen sink, I watch my elderly neighbor shuffle around in his backyard, shoveling snow. In summer, he and his wife spend hours each day planting, watering, weeding and coaxing incredible beauty out of dry ground. It has always perplexed me, actually, because I’ve never seen anyone else in their yard. It seems like such a waste to sculpt beauty for no one to see.
Standing at the kitchen counter, I think about the notebook I carry around with me that probably has 200 titles of blog posts and ideas to write about. Some of those words will grow, blossom and die without a single other person ever reading them—just a secret thought between God and me. But some will be cut and handed out for others to enjoy (though, like freshly cut flowers, they will likely be forgotten with the next day’s round of blog posts, email newsletters and online journals).
What a waste, I think. But then I begin to wonder …
“To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted…” (Eccl. 3:1-2 KJV).
***
Colorado is yellow in the fall. Aspen strike the treeline of the Rockies with such a brilliant yellow, that you nearly have to squint your eyes to take them in without being blinded.
My husband and I passed these flowers blooming in a neighbor’s garden on an evening walk a few weeks ago. “Have these always been here?” my husband asked.
“I don’t think so,” I said. “I’m pretty sure they only bloom in the fall.” Though it’s a bit cliche, those perfect yellow blooms got me thinking about this season of motherhood, asking myself, Am I blooming here, or just biding my time, hoping that this season will pass quickly? A week and a half ago, I took the one-month old baby and fled to my parent’s house over the highest road in the nation. I just needed a nap. My parents took care of me, fed me, held the baby and allowed me to rest for nearly 48 hours. On the majestic drive home in the early hours of the morning, I forced myself to spend the two hours in silence. I attempted to clear my head and just listen.
In the silence, I began to formulate a list of priorities. Watching the center line kept me from careening over the edge, much like keeping my eyes on Jesus is holding me from sailing right into the tired mama’s tendency towards postpartum depression. My list right now is simply this:
Sleep when I can Exercise daily Get outdoors daily Eat healthy food Seek God Talk to another adult But I also felt like I needed to remember my husband. For the past few months, we’ve been high-fiving one another and passing on the baton in the relay-race of parenthood. We are partners and team-players, but are we lovers, friends and companions? This newborn’s needs must come first right now, but is my husband a close second? So we are instituting weekly one to two hour date nights for a couple months and getting better about being intentional with one another. I’m trying to remember to make eye contact and really see him even when I can barely see straight because of sleeplessness. It’s been a week and a half since my assessment and I am feeling more emotionally healthy. On the days I don’t walk alone, I strap on the baby and push us out of the house for a walk. The exercise and fall are ministering to my weary soul.
I will be the first to tell anyone that I am not a pinteresty mom. I don’t do crafts or cutesy activities. But in a moment of weakness last week, I drew up a simple scavenger hunt for my kids to do during the “hike” part of our walk.
The kids looked for animal tracks in the hardened path, picked up sticks and were delighted when we discovered three apple trees along the way. I tried not to smack the baby as I hoisted a stick up to dislodge the apples, yelling at my kids to get out of the way so they didn’t get hit in the head. Our mouths full of sweet apples, we laughed at one another and delighted over the special unexpected treat.
It was one of the first times I have felt fully present with my kids in a really long time.
Over the past few months, an image has come to mind as I’ve thought about my life as a mother. So many times, I feel like I am sitting in the stands while my kids are out on the field playing. But I am the type of disengaged spectator who is scrolling through social media on her phone, wishing she were anywhere but here.
I see my kids as an interruption.
Instead, I hope to be not only paying attention to them, but their greatest fan. In his book, Just Mercy, Bryan Stevenson said that he always knew that his mother adored him. I hope the my kids will be able to say the same of me. A friend sent me a verse several weeks ago that had spoken to her as she prepared to have a baby of her own. It has also come to mind over the past days and weeks as I’ve struggled to be content in this season of life that can feel so restrictive and confining. “Trust in the Lord and do good; Dwell in the land and cultivate faithfulness” (Ps. 37:3 NASB).
The word that stands out to me is “cultivate.” Cultivating requires staying in one place and tending to my garden. Patience, persistence and attention are needed if I am going to see my seeds grow. This is the season of staying put and doing the back-breaking, repetitive work of watering, weed-pulling and guarding from both frost and heat.
This is the season of loving when I see very little return for my love. It is the season of tilling hard soil and wondering if my words will ever sink down deep. And the verse that follows is one that ironically, I clung hard to in my many years of longing for a husband and children:
“Delight yourself in the Lord; And He will give you the desires of your heart” (Ps. 37:4 NASB).
It is not just in delighting in nature, my “me time,” my husband, or my children that I will find the soul rest that I seek. It is in delighting in my God. Nevertheless, my prayer in this season is this:
“Lord, Help me to listen more than I speak, read more than I write,
laugh more than I cry, praise more than I criticize and be more than I do.”
I had the privilege ofwriting over at The Mudroom a week (or two) ago and with all the life shifts, I am just now getting around to sharing it here (quickly…all three children are sleeping!).
Legs curled under my body, I stole a few minutes from studying to sit on the floral couch in the chapel hidden in the attic of Williston Hall, scribbling in my journal. I’d sometimes sneak in here for an hour of quiet between classes since it was in the middle of campus and my dorm was a much farther walk away. Suddenly, the door burst open and a woman in her early 40’s entered with her two school-aged daughters. She peered around the room, eyes wide. “I spent so much time here,” she whispered. “And it hasn’t changed at all…”
In her, I saw my future self. What will life be like when I’m 40? Where will I have gone? What will I have done? I thought. Later in the day as I crossed Blanchard lawn on my way to class, I passed some alumni visiting for their twenty year reunion and one of them stopped me to ask for directions. Before turning away, though, he said, “Enjoy this. These are the best years of your life.” The “best”? So it’s all downhill after college? I thought. Sad. Now that I am nearing 40, I understand more of what that man meant. From his life of mortgages, insurance, bills, retirement savings, car payments and parenting, what my dad’s description of college as “living with your friends and studying a bit on the side” sounds pretty amazing.
****
I now have two teeny children who I avoid taking to the grocery store at all costs. But when I do, I catch some grandmother fondly admiring my two blondies and I know what she is about to say. “It goes so fast. These are just the best years!” she’ll call over from the other aisle. And if she’s especially anointed that day, she’ll add, “Enjoy them!” Another woman left much the same message on one of my blog posts about motherhood recently. In fact, I think she actually used the words, “Those years with little ones were the best years of my life.” …continue reading at The Mudroom. ~~~
I lived ALONE in China for five years. So how can it be that now just schlepping my two kids to the grocery store less than a mile from my house feels like an adventurous and arduous task? Motherhood has been a joyful and unexpected gift, but as a person who had kids in her mid-thirties, the adjustment has been a jarring one. But in the past few weeks, one new habit and two new ideas have brought a bit of clarity and hope to my life as a mother in this season with little ones when it can be hard to remember who you are, much less find Jesus in the fog. 1. Get off the porch
We live at the foothills of the Rocky Mountains and I recently jogged past a house with a porch just steps from a mountain view. What a shame they can’t see the mountains, I thought. Were they to walk just ten feet from their house, they would have a spectacular view of the sun spraying the rugged mountains with pink light.
As I thought about missing my long pre-kid mornings spent with the Lord, I felt like there was a message in that for me—“Just get off the porch, Leslie. I’m right there waiting for you. All you need to do is show up.”
As a result, I’ve been trying to set aside 20 minutes every morning to read one day of the One Year Bible and a very short devotional. I’m trying not to categorize this time as a “quiet time” or “Bible study,” but instead see it as simply as spending time with Jesus. Sitting at His feet. Laying my tired head on His chest. Asking for His help and gathering my manna for the day. Yes, it sometimes means hiding in another room while my children scream from their rooms (they have plenty of toys to keep them busy), but even in the noise, God seems to be whispering loud enough for me to hear.
Honestly, there are some aspects of motherhood that I kind of abhor. What makes up my list of detestable chores? Sweeping the floor after EVERY blessed meal, changing poopy diapers, rinsing out cloth diapers (ugh, but worth it?), getting kids into bed when you’re dead tired yourself, cooking food that most likely won’t get eaten and dealing with Laundry Mountain.
But as I sought God this week, I read the story of Jesus washing His disciples’ disgusting feet and then telling everyone to follow suit (John 13). And certain aspects of my life as a mother to little ones became blindingly illuminated—and surprisingly elevated. Do I see these mundane tasks as service to my King? Would I grumble as much if it were Jesus Himself asking me to do them? (As He is, in fact, doing.)
Somehow viewing these jobs as service to Jesus brings me more joy than thinking about doing them simply for my children. We don’t have the practice of foot washing as a norm in our culture, so perhaps if Jesus spoke to us today, He would instead be commanding us to change diapers, pick up paper towels off the church bathroom floor or make that toy truck “talk” for the one hundredth time today. What does “foot washing” look like for you? 3. Serve the Least of These
Another story that has hit me hard recently is when Jesus tells the disciples that when they treat what most people would consider to be “the least of these” with love, respect and compassion, they are serving Christ Himself. This story usually conjures images of soup kitchens, homeless shelters and slums, but this week as I thought about “the least of these” in my life, what came to mind were my two darling, frustrating little tow heads.
Don’t judge, but my oldest child is not potty trained and cannot dress himself. He and my daughter are completely dependent on my husband and me to meet their every need. Weak, helpless and vulnerable, our children are “the least of these.” So as I think of them in this way, how does that change the way I go about caring for them on a daily basis? Do I see Jesus in their tiny hands, chubby knees and wispy hair? As I get up for the third time in the night to get my son his water or straighten out his blankets? Because Jesus says that as I serve the least of these, I am, in fact, serving Him (Mat. 25:40).
~~~
I miss hour-long quiet times in the stillness of dawn, my dirtiest tasks being to clean the bathroom whenever I felt like it and the days of serving others on my own terms. But that is not motherhood (nor is it being a Jesus-follower). So for now, I’m thankful that Jesus blesses my small efforts at holiness and for the reminders of His presence in the faces of the little people I am privileged to serve. Because as I serve them, I am serving Jesus Himself.
~~~~~~
What does “foot washing” look like to you?
What is helping you find Jesus in the fog of motherhood right now?
~~~~~~
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Lately, I feel like God is reminding me to notice.
Notice detail, notice people, notice Him. Because I haven’t been. And noticing is a prerequisite to thankfulness, praise, worship and action. I’m bumping along life without recognition, like the blind man who wasn’t completely healed and saw people walking around that looked like trees. I need Jesus to restore my vision completely. Because I have forgotten how to SEE people.
As I reach around my one-year-old strapped to my front, searching for my wallet and watching for my three-year-old who is most likely pulling all the chip bags off the stand or smearing the display case glass with finger prints, it catches me off guard when the cashier behind the counter asks me, “How is your day going?” or “Have you had a good morning?” The first few times this happened after moving to Colorado, I’m sure I just looked at them with my mouth hanging slightly open. Chicago is not an unfriendly city, but perfect strangers didn’t usually ask me such personal questions. How was I supposed to answer?
But the question, though I now realize was not a true venture into how I am feeling at the current moment, rocked me, because I hadn’t even noticed a person was there until they spoke to me. Worse, I would have gone through our entire interaction without even looking them in the eye.
In The Weight of Glory, C.S. Lewis says, “It is a serious thing to live in a society of possible gods and goddesses, to remember that the dullest most uninteresting person you can talk to may one day be a creature which,if you saw it now, you would be strongly tempted to worship, or else a horror and a corruption such as you now meet, if at all, only in a nightmare. All day long we are, in some degree helping each other to one or the other of these destinations. It is in the light of these overwhelming possibilities, it is with the awe and the circumspection proper to them, that we should conduct all of our dealings with one another, all friendships, all loves, all play, all politics. There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal. Nations, cultures, arts, civilizations – these are mortal, and their life is to ours as the life of a gnat. But it is immortals whom we joke with, work with, marry, snub, and exploit – immortal horrors or everlasting splendors.” People are eternal. And every.single.one. is made in the image of God Himself. So when I don’t see people, I don’t see God.
Lately, I have not only failed to notice strangers, but I have even forgotten to notice the people who are right in front of me–my children and husband. Now, I believe in rest, alone time, naps and hobbies, but I have begun ignoring my children even during times when I could be fully present with them. Scrolling Facebook during bath time, texting while I sit with them on the floor, and spacing out when they ask me questions,I spend the day lamely multi-tasking when I would be better off focusing on one activity at a time–mainly, my children. And I’m missing out. And though love is not a fairy tale, how often do I take a second and really gaze into my husband’s eyes? How often do I think about him during the day or sit and talk with him face-to-face instead of operating in survival mode, ticking off tasks as we work side-by-side? When did I stop leaving him little love notes or sweet texts? Have I prayed for him today, yesterday or anytime recently? The word I’ve chosen to focus on this year is “enjoy,” which begins with noticing. When I set aside my phone and to-do lists and intentionally notice people, I can begin to enjoy the people all around me.
If I would only ACCEPT that the pace of my life right now with two kids under three needs to be slower than I’ve ever been used to, I’ll begin to notice God in the details more than I ever have. For nature, strangers, friends, family, my children and my husband are really displays of the splendor of God at work all around me. If I will only take the time to notice. Do you notice people?
I really thought my life as a nearly 37-year-old would look very different from the way it actually looks today. As a 20-year-old, let’s say, I envisioned my future self as living in another country, speaking another language and having a family with bi (or tri)-lingual children. I planned on raising them to love other cultures, attend local schools, eat ethnic foods and travel the world. We would possibly even live without plumbing. And my husband would be right there beside me–leading people to Christ and possibly even preaching or teaching in other languages. That’s how it was supposed to go. And if I stayed single? (my plan B) I’d get my PhD and have lots of disciple “children” in another country, like Amy Carmichael, who was a single missionary in an orphanage in India for over 50 years. Oh how God has a sense of humor. Though I was on that very path, God U-turned my life six years ago to bring me back exactly where I started (or so I thought). And I found myself living a life I never dreamed I’d live: an “ordinary” one. The crossroads of life have a catch. Once you pass them, you can never go back. I recently listened to a podcast called Sorta Awesome that talked about saying goodbye to all of your potential yous that never came into existence. And I feel it’s time that I bid those other Leslies adieu.
Goodbye to the single Leslie who would change the world. Goodbye to the Leslie who would marry someone of another race and have gorgeous bi-racial children. Goodbye to the Leslie who would marry someone in full-time ministry. Goodbye to the Leslie who would get a PhD studying an ethnic minority in northwest China. Goodbye to the Leslie who would be a social worker (my first major). Goodbye to the Leslie who would transform the inner city of Chicago through her badass teaching methods…think Dangerous Minds (I tried that, actually, and that Leslie didn’t materialize). Goodbye to the Leslie with 6, 8 or 10 children (probably not biologically possible for me anymore), or the Leslie who would be the “mom of boys” or “mom of girls” (I have a boy and a girl). Goodbye to the Leslie who would be a nurse (I got accepted to nursing school, but didn’t go). Goodbye to what could have been. Hello and welcome to what is. To what God has done, is doing and will do. Thank God for the roads taken and the roads not taken. Because at every crossroads, He was there. He was pointing, guiding, urging, leading and holding my hand, whether I knew it or not. Goodbye, fair Leslies. Those would have been good lives, too, were they what God had planned for me. It turns out He wanted me to be a teacher, live for a time in China, be single for a season, finally marry an actor in Chicago, have two adorable stinkers, move to Colorado and begin a little blog. And “ordinary” is relative, after all. This Saturday night, I cooked dinner to James Taylor in the background, with my one-year-old daughter on my hip, helping me deliver cardamom, cumin, coriander and turmeric to the counter to make chickpea curry. Meanwhile, my sick husband was curled up with tea, a cozy blanket and a book at the kitchen table. In the other room, our son played with our former Saudi Arabian exchange student, laughing and making trucks talk back and forth. My daughter got bored “cooking” and dove into the cardboard box in the living room that is our best new toy. Earlier in the day, we all squashed into our Corolla to drive 45 minutes up into the snow-covered mountains to Rocky Mountain National Park, pausing on turn-outs for breath-catching views. We put the kids to bed after dinner and conversations about the intersections of Muslim and Christian theology and melted into the couch to watch a new British murder mystery T.V. series. Yes, our life is ordinary. But ordinary is the way your foot eventually molds grooves into stiff shoes. It is the way a gorgeous new dress gradually becomes “you” and a natural part of your wardrobe. “Ordinary” for us does not look like “ordinary” for others. In fact, your “ordinary” may be very exotic to me, and vice versa. Ordinary is no longer a bad word to me. Though I am not changing the world at a macro level, love, cultures, food, friends, laughter and challenges are happening at a micro level under my roof just as they would have had I found myself on another path. This is the Leslie that God intended to be. So I will stop turning to look back at those other Leslies that could have been and allow them to fade into the distance, granting them a fond, but firm farewell. I do not regret a single road taken. Though life is not as I expected, it is still pretty spectacular, even in all its ordinary-ness. What about you? How does your life look different (so far) from what you had planned for yourself? How have you seen the grace in that? I’d love to read your stories in the comments! Previous Post~Personal Discoveries in 2015: Friendships, Spirituality & Writing
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