Of Stretch Marks and Grace
No one told me about the stretch marks that come after the baby is born. Oh, I’d been amply warned of the blemishes that accompany pregnancy.
I’d been told about skin pulled like silly putty and salmon-hued stripes that would forever bear witness to the life that had bloomed beneath my heart.
I’d received waiting-room wisdom from other expectant moms and had heeded sage suggestions from toddler-toting survivors whose stomachs had once surrendered to jeans with extra panels and belly-button hugging underwear.
I’d been enlightened on the marvels of Udder Cream and the wonders of vitamin E.
I’d religiously followed recommendations to moisturize and exercise.
But in the end, as my stomach swelled and my thighs softened and bulged, I made a deliberate choice to reconcile the marring with the miracle.
Even at the tender age of twenty-five, I seemed to innately know that a few stretch marks were a cheap price to pay for the riches of motherhood.
Five babies later, I still believe that’s true.
The c-section scar, the bruised blotches on my thighs, the unsolicited skin streaks that refuse to tan. None of those really matter. They’re just personal tattoos of God’s amazing grace.
The visible marks I can live with.
It’s the invisible ones that bring me to my knees.
What I didn’t know fifteen years ago, as I slathered on Udder Cream and prayed that my tensile tummy would one day fit back into normal jeans, was that the battle scars on my skin would never rival the stretch marks on my heart.
In time, my stomach would recover a semblance of its original shape, but my heart never would.
I remember how my body ached when my pregnancies were finished, how pieces and parts of me that I’d never noticed before had cried in protest after nine months of being stretched and jostled by the inhabitant in my womb.
But more shocking than the sore muscles and weakened core was the ache that took up residence in my heart the moment my first wiggly wet miracle was placed in my arms.
More disturbing than flaccid abs and sagging skin was the way this new thing called mother love rooted in the depths of my soul and stretched my heart to capacity day after passing day.
More disturbing than flaccid abs and sagging skin was the way this new thing called mother love rooted in the depths of my soul and stretched my heart to capacity day after passing day.
I had never cried over the injustice of starving children before, but the first time I heard the soft coos of the suckling baby at my breast, I baptized the rocking chair with tears, because I realized that somewhere in the world was a mama whose wee one wailed from hunger while I rocked the night away.
I’d never ached for orphans when I was lying in the comfort of my own bed, but the first time I slid into the bottom bunk of my feverish toddler and wrapped my arms around his sweaty frame, my stomach lurched in grief. Because I knew that somewhere on this big blue globe a motherless child lay alone in the dark with sweltering skin and shaking limbs.
So my heart swelled in prayer and my soul stretched with a timeless, nameless pain, and I wished my insides would just return to their old shape.
I wanted my heart to grow firm again so I could walk by a playground dotted with children without looking for the child on the fray; so I could watch my little ones chase their shadows across the yard without leaking drizzles of awe down my cheeks.
It wasn’t just injustice that left my heart stretched and thin; it was beauty, as well.
It was the smell of a soft sweaty head leaning against my chest as the sun rose, the sound of sisters giggling in their bunk beds as the stars illuminated the night, the feel of those chubby baby fingers wrapped around mine.
Motherhood open my eyes to the glory in the grit,
and left my stretched-out soul aching with the wonder of it all.
It was the smell of a soft sweaty head leaning against my chest as the sun rose, the sound of sisters giggling in their bunk beds as the stars illuminated the night, the feel of those chubby baby fingers wrapped around mine.
Motherhood open my eyes to the glory in the grit,
and left my stretched-out soul aching with the wonder of it all.
After four babies, I finally asked God for a new heart, one without all the stretch marks.I told Him I couldn’t breathe.
But my prayers fell on deaf ears. Or upon sovereign grace.
So I kept rocking babies and folding underwear and gasping in prayer when my heart threatened to burst.
And then, one day, I encountered a mom who taught me how to breathe through the ache.
So I kept rocking babies and folding underwear and gasping in prayer when my heart threatened to burst.
And then, one day, I encountered a mom who taught me how to breathe through the ache.
Inhale grace. Exhale gratitude.
CPR for the stretching soul.
CPR for the stretching soul.
And with practice, I learned to breathe anew–
Naming gifts and proffering praise;
inhaling grace and exhaling gratitude.
Naming gifts and proffering praise;
inhaling grace and exhaling gratitude.
Every time I bent low and applauded polka-dot-dandelions from a toddler’s eye-view; every time I listened to the ring of my teenager’s laughter and thanked God for the sound; every time I admitted I wasn’t enough and turned to the One who is, I’d feel the stretch and accept the ache.
Eventually I began to view those stretch marks on my soul much like the stretch marks on my skin, as tattoos of His amazing grace. And in time, I stopped begging God for a new heart.
Maybe that’s why last week when I stood at the ocean’s edge and watched my firstborn wading beside little brother in the brilliant blue, I let the ache roll over me like the morning tide.
And when fear threatened to strangle my peace as I remembered that big brother has only four years left beneath our roof, I exhaled thanks for the boy turning into a man right before my eyes.
Brothers bent low to find treasures along the shore, and I thanked Jesus for the way He stoops beside me, holding me up with hands marred by marks of love.
And though my heart threatened to split open right there on the sand like the empty crab shells scattered at my feet, I let the ache rise steady as my humble sacrifice of praise.
And though my heart threatened to split open right there on the sand like the empty crab shells scattered at my feet, I let the ache rise steady as my humble sacrifice of praise.
Then, while the sun cast pink shadows across the sand, I breathed deep and watched my barefoot ballerina twirl
happy in the shimmering light.
Inhaling grace; exhaling praise, I shed my own shoes and tiptoed toward my girl.
Because motherhood is a daily walk on holy ground, and with the marring always comes a miracle.
Linking with Jennifer, Beth, Emily, Jen for soli deo gloria, and Jill for Third Thursday Thoughts.
Linking with Jennifer, Beth, Emily, Jen for soli deo gloria, and Jill for Third Thursday Thoughts.
girl. thank you. you voiced what i feel, day after day. this is inspired. this is beautiful.
Beautiful. Glory in the grit – so true, so true. I love your momma’s heart. It sounds a lot like mine. I get this. Thank you, my friend.
Alicia, your words are so strong and true and covered in love here. I soaked them up and did not want this to end. My friend, I agree with the words spoken above — powerful, wow, gorgeous writing — and I am feeling so heard and known in my journey as a mama through this piece. Marring before the miracle. This is wonderful, my friend!
This is a stunning post, and I am SO glad I read it today. Thank you for your words, this is beautiful.
I totally hear you with Max and Ruby…..I was getting ready to call Bunny Social Se…ces.i…vrand not diggin "Weenie" either from Oswald.
Alicia … ALICIA!
This is stunning. W-w-w-wow.
Beautiful insights and reminders for all mothers to heed! Thank you!
Yes, beautifully said! It never ceases to amaze me how God stretches us through our children. I’m thankful both my insides and outsides have been stretched! And He’s not through yet!! 😉
Glad I hopped over here from the H@H Blog Hop today.
I wish I could wrap the contentment you found in your body marks as a gift at showers. And sometimes I meet someone who needs the gift of stretching on her inside so she can see the gifts of children. Lovely post.
yes breath
in, out
slow, steady
Lord give her more
Beautifully written. You’ve captured motherhood at its finest, with all its heartbreaks and triumphs. Thanks for sharing and allowing God to speak through you.
Oh, Alicia, this post is so BEAUTIFUL! Sometimes the marring is the miracle, isn’t it?
yes. yes. yes, mama. how are heart is shaped and pulled. so lovely!
You write so magnificently! I call my extra pregnancy skin (I donned this instead of stretch marks and will never have a flat stomach without plastic surgery) my blessed souvenir of the fact that “with the marring always comes a miracle”. I got two miracles (boys) and I love the stretching as hard as it may be that God has done in my journey of motherhood.
So beautifully said!
Oh yes. Such holy ground.
Absolutely beautiful. Did my momma heart good to read this today.
“With the marring always comes a miracle.”
Yes. I’ve seen that happen so often in my own life.
Love this:
“the battle scars on my skin would never rival the stretch marks on my heart”
So true. Being a mother stretches us in ways we couldn’t predict.
Whew, I’m taken back by the beauty of your words here, Alicia! “Inhaling grace; exhaling praise.” That’s so true and good and something I must tuck away in my mind and heart for the days when I focus on the marring of the scars instead of the miracle. Beautiful writing and profoundly moving words, my friend. I’m so glad you linked it up with Wedded Wed, Alicia! I hope you make joining me a weekly habit. 🙂
(standing and clapping and hooting for this)
oh, how i love this. it must be shared. my fave post of yours, Alicia. ever.