I’m lingering in the shower (okay, hiding in the shower), when I think of her.
Her hallow eyes flash through my mind as I stand beneath the steamy stream in hopes of washing away my melancholy.
I remember her sad laugh as I try to shed the heavy gray that’s wrapped itself around my heart today like the sky that shrouds the sun beyond my window.
I picture her tears as I fight my own and wonder how a day could look so long and wearisome before it’s even begun. There’s nothing wrong with the hours that stretch ahead- just normal life. Laundry and haircuts. Meals to prepare and picture books to read. Puzzles to assemble and Hot Wheel races to applaud. But I find myself wishing that all my kids were hopping on that big yellow bus today, leaving me alone in a quiet house with my silent to-do list.
The singing just beyond my bathroom door should have shaken me from the gloom. The sweet daughter putting life to music, every moment a musical, should have pulled me from my wallow. But it is the memory of this young mom that slaps me awake before I walk numb through the remainder of my day. It’s the haunting picture of her slumped shoulders that washes away my apathy far quicker than the soapy water dripping off my hair and sliding down the drain.
I don’t know her name or address. Have no idea of her age. But I remember clearly the conversation we shared after a MOPS meeting when I was just a mom of two tow-headed preschoolers.
I’d spoken that morning to a room crammed with moms and had delighted in the women who had lined up to continue our conversation long after I’d uttered the closing prayer. She had stood patiently at the end of the snaking line, waiting to talk to me while her peers all took their turns.
When she’d finally reached my side, I stroked the soft head of the pink-faced infant curled up in the pinstriped snuggly strapped to her middle; then offered a high five to the cranky toddler who was pumping her arm up and down like a farm hand securing a drink from an old fashioned water spigot.
A preschooler in a sparkly tutu glided in circles around us, demanding that her mommy watch as she spun and twirled to imagined music. With one eye on her budding ballerina and another fixed on me, this mommy began to relay her trying tale.
She told of her decade-long battle with infertility. Spoke quietly of the pain and hopelessness and anger. The babies lost too early and the scars left on her heart. She talked about finally giving up, about packing away her maternity clothes and baby blankets and resigning herself to a life without children. And then the One who had seemed un-hearing, un-caring planted life in her womb. Three times over in the course of the next five years. The miracle for which she’d prayed became her new reality.
I’d reached for her hand and commented on God’s faithfulness. But her empty eyes failed to reflect my awe. Instead, she just cast a defeated glance at the baby on her bosom and confessed with a wry little chuckle, “Before I had kids, all I did was dream of the day when I would finally be a mom. And now all I do is dream of the day when my baby will finally go to kindergarten.”
My heart ached and my mouth grew dry. I didn’t know what to say. I leaned down and kissed the baby between us and asked if I could pray. For her. For them. For all of us struggling to receive
His gifts.
She shrugged her shoulders, as if she didn’t care one way or another, and I accepted the gesture as a yes. I placed my hands on top of the weary mom’s head and begged the Lord to breathe fresh passion and purpose into her withering soul and then silently vowed that I would not be a mother who spends this fleeting season of life just waiting for my last child to go to kindergarten.
I didn’t know then how difficult it would be to keep that vow. How arrogant I was to miss the reflection of my own heart in the shadow of her story.
This morning, when her face intrudes my pity party in the shower, I wonder how many days I’ve echoed her song. How many times have I trudged through the present moment entertaining dreams of a better tomorrow? Hadn’t I just penned it- Who first called life ordinary and why do I often live like it is?And yet, four days later, I greet the morning with an unexplainable dread. Fail to marvel at the precious gift of today.
Joshua stands outside the bathroom door and begs me to hurry because Maggie has stolen his favorite blankie and Hannah needs help getting her pigtails straight. I don’t feel like turning off the water and surrendering my steamy solace. But as I wrap a thread-bare towel around my dripping form, I realize this: I can’t trust my feelings. The only lens through which to see my day is the lens of the Word.
Mommy! Mommy! I caught a raindrop on my tongue. Come see! My jammies are all wet.
Mom! He left the door open and the kitchen floor is soaked.
Mom! I can’t find my boots for school.
And so I say it in faith, trusting that in time my heart will catch up with my head: This is the day that the Lord has made. I will rejoice and be glad in it. Psalm 118:24
Photo Credit: Raindrops on Wateron Flickr, Creative Commons. Joining up today with Journey to Epiphany for…
Oh man! You had me all teared up again! I love your writings…they are so inspiring and real! I try my best to embrace every day…knowing that someday these crazy days will pass…and I will want them back! Love your post! Love you!
You embrace each day better than anyone I know, friend. Love you, too.
Oh man! You had me all teared up again! I love your writings…they are so inspiring and real! I try my best to embrace every day…knowing that someday these crazy days will pass…and I will want them back!
Love your post!
Love you!