For the Mom Whose Eyes Have Grown Dim
When I first laid eyes on my newborn son, I didn’t know that motherhood would impair my vision.
On that day when I first drank deep the sight of him, all wet and wiggly and wonderful, I had no idea that I’d be prone to blindness.
When I lost myself in his baby blues, my labor-weary body ravished by awe, I couldn’t have imagined that someday I’d have to fight to see him clearly.
And on that day when the world stopped spinning so I could steady my ravished heart and count his tiny fingers and toes, I had no idea that someday when those feet barreled down the hallway before sunrise, I’d forget to count them as proof of wild grace .
I didn’t know that the greatest challenge of motherhood wouldn’t be figuring out how to grow a boy into a man; but learning how to keep his mama’s eyes from growing dim.
“Satan is an agent of familiarity…” Max Lucado writes in God Came Near. “His goal is nothing less than to take what is most precious to us and make it appear common.”
There’s no affliction that steals our vision more quickly than the curse of the common life. And no disease that hardens our hearts like the dimming of our eyes.
When all I can see in the priceless moments of my day is the spelling words that need to be mastered and the laundry piled high and the dirty dishes cluttering the counter, then I am at risk of becoming blind.
When the woman staring back at me in the mirror
is obsessed with the black circles beneath her eyes and the extra wrinkles cropping up on her forehead and the bonus roll of stomach skin left from the stretch and pull of five pregnancies, then my vision is growing blurred.
And if I can no longer see the gleam in my daughter’s eyes as she tells me the story she’s dreaming up, no longer notice the tenderness that seeps from my little ones as they take each other’s hands and walk in sync across the yard, then I am surrendering to the enemy’s battle plan.
When I cease to marvel at the way my boy is transforming daily into a man; fail to notice how those hands that used to tug me into the backyard for another game of soccer now lift and twirl little sister in the air like she’s a wisp ofdandelion dust, then I am losing my eyes of faith.
If I view the familiar through my own impaired vision, I fall prey to the lie that my life is ordinary.
And the enemy celebrates my disillusion.
I’m tired of living blind.
There is nothing common about ordinary life except for our all-too common failure to see it as precious.
Today, I will celebrate the familiar.
Today, I will count to see.
I will peer through the lens of praise, and notice how my ordinary laundry-folding, grocery-getting, carpooling life shimmers with an extraordinary sheen of grace.
So here’s what I want you to do, God helping you: Take your everyday, ordinary life—your sleeping, eating, going-to-work, and walking-around life—and place it before God as an offering. -Romans 12:1, The Message
-from the archives
2184. Safety from the storm!
2185. Donut crumbs beneath the kitchen table.
2186. The way she tells a story with her WHOLE body
2187. My big boy humming praise songs while he does homework
2188. Packing Amanda’s kitchen and chatting while we box- the gift of doing life with faith friends.
2189. A clean oven!
2190. An orange harvest moon rising over the fields while we roast marshmallows under the stars.
2191. Tears and hugs, friends who aren’t afraid to walk with us through bittersweet
2192. A bike ride with Hannah ALONE; prayer time on the bench along the lakepath.
2193. 2 rainbow ballerina’s chalked on the driveway- “That’s you and me dancing together, Mommy!”
2194. Touch up paint covering the chips on the walls again
2195. The kids all dressed crazy for Homecoming week!