MollyMadonna.com

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saying “i do-ula.”

If you’ve been around mollymadonna.com for a bit now, you know that I’m super passionate about mamas having a well-supported birth experience. It’s why I was drawn to the concept of a doula when first introduced back in 2007, and why I pursued and completed certification with DONA International a few years back. I love being a doula! I love everything about what it means to support a mother, her partner/spouse if present, and their baby in labor and delivery. And I love how humbling it is–every single time, to witness the beauty and miracle of birth. What a gift!

A few weeks back, I shared this guest post at redandhoney.com about why I think every woman should have access to a doula/birth support, and why having a doula has made all the difference to me. If you haven’t seen it yet, I encourage you to venture over to R&H, and to share the post with anyone you know who might benefit from reading. Thanks in advance for supporting the expectant mamas within your sphere of influence.

much love from this mama lovin’ doula/doula lovin’ mama,
mm

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a story for bedtime. and every time.

“Therefore I tell you, do not be anxious about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, nor about your body, what you will put on. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing? Look at the birds of the air: they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they?” Matthew 6.25-26

I spotted it while washing a tomato at the kitchen sink before dinner. The fragile flit of wings against a rock below the hedge. I shouldn’t have noticed it, not really; not while the kids were clamoring for food and the bacon was sizzling right out of the pan, not while a new storm was rolling in and the sky was darkening corners of the house. But, instinct. Instinct rolled in, too, like a mother bird who knows to build a nest…who knows to warm the eggs…who knows to keep the nestlings safe, and then…

There she was, and she was calling out. That same sweet sound I’ve heard from the window over and over again, but desperate. That same sweet mama hopping anxiously from her baby to the tree above and back. I was sure of what had happened before I could clearly make it out through the panes. New life had fallen on her watch and she was panicked. Nothing to do but try to convince her babe to take flight, and it was much too soon.

Something moved in me to take action, and as I think on it, I know three reasons why:

1) I have loved these birds through the window for months on end and they bring me great joy. They belong. Here.

2) My mama heart imagined being her mama heart and in an instant, I ached.

3) I love a happy ending, and darkness doesn’t win in the end.

God drew my attention to this little life today–I’m convinced of it. Even if only to spare the life of a tiny bird, but more likely, to spare mine. To provide a glimpse into His heart, without question.

The details of what followed are important, and not. I set my babies up quickly with something to stay safely occupied indoors. I Googled how to save a baby bird. No, really. I called my neighbor for help, because I’m a little crazy and that’s just the kind of thing you do when you have amazing neighbors and you’re trying to save a baby bird. I prepped a box and ran all around for gloves (plastic bags), a shovel, foil to cover the bacon. I ran outside and prayed to beat the rain.

Overhead, a hawk flew circling. Looming like the gray clouds behind him. Looming as if to thicken the plot. Honestly. I really think God had a story to tell here in our side yard tonight, and God doesn’t miss the details. As my dear friend and I tried to figure out getting this sweet baby back to where he came from, Jason arrived home. Knight in shining armor in that moment. Between them and their enviable height, my willing recruits managed to pick up the tiny cardinal and separate the hedge just enough to set him back in his place. (I only managed to take pictures.) No matter. My heart was light. I nearly cried a few minutes later while I watched from the dinner table as both mama and dad returned to the nest. Such joy!

***

Tonight, as is often his request once tucked into bed, Henry asked me to tell him a “new” story. Something he’s never heard before. Something good, but off the top of my head. Hm. Thinking on my feet as best I could, I recounted the tale of a mama bird and a daddy bird who fell in love, got married, and flew everywhere in search of the perfect home. Without luck, they finally found a place to perch one night and offered up a prayer to God for the home that He intended for them–a place where they could raise a family and where He would keep them safe. Naturally, they found a home…in a lovely hedge in a sweet neighborhood in a smallish town. And naturally the mama soon laid an egg and the egg soon hatched and the daddy returned home to find a sweet baby boy bird in the nest that day.

And then I started to tell Henry that the wind blew a little and the baby bird wobbled and fell out of his nest. But before I could barely get the words out, he began crying and begged me not to let the bird fall out, “It’s too sad, Mom! It’s too scary! Don’t make the bird fall out of the nest! He can’t!!” He wouldn’t let it go until I changed the story altogether. Obviously then, the nestling never fell and the mommy and daddy and baby bird lived happily ever after in their cozy nest. The end.

As I finished, Henry thanked me. “You mixed up my feelings and made them all ok again,” he said. And this really gave me something to consider.

We never want the part where we fall and things are hard, and for a while they even seem dark and looming and impossible to overcome. Of course we don’t. We hate that part. It makes us want to cry and scream, “It’s too scary! I can’t!!” But here’s the thing:

There’s no great story without the fall, and there’s no amazing ending with out the Rescue.

In between, there’s no great plot without the great writer orchestrating all of the details and crafting a reality that none of us could dream up on our own. Without the noticing. Without the calls for help. Without the tugging at our hearts to choose what we know deep down to be the very truest bit of it all, that we have a Creator who made us and sees us and knows when we sit…when we stand…when we fall. And He has sent a great Rescuer on our behalf to scoop us up and put us back. Home. Where we belong. Right with our Father.

“But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which today is alive and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will he not much more clothe you, O you of little faith? Therefore do not be anxious, saying, ‘What shall we eat?’ or ‘What shall we drink?’ or ‘What shall we wear?’ For the Gentiles seek after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them all. But seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be added to you.” Matthew 6.30-33

He cares for us. He cares for us. He cares for us.

Far more than the birds of the air or the flowers of the field, and yet He cares for them, too. Tonight is a perfect tidbit of proof.

“Therefore do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will be anxious for itself. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble.” Matthew 6.34

We worry and we fret over the details…big and small…that we’re not sure He sees. But He sees them, I promise you. He covers them, I promise you. And He longs for us to tune in to an awareness and knowledge of Him that He can use for good. Nothing goes unnoticed by the Father. Even when it seems impossible. Even when we fall and fall hard. It’s really an incredible story.

humbly asking to be your hands and feet tonight, God, and to hear your voice even in a whisper. even in a helpless baby bird, a mother crying out, a boy who desperately seeks a happy ending to your great story.

mm

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dear henry.

Do you know how magical you are? I mean, truly amazing and more than I could have ever imagined and just…incredible. So much so that I suddenly needed to share it, right in this very moment. I let so many good intentions go by, but this? This one I can’t miss, sweet boy, and I’ll tell you why.

The other day, your daddy was hugging me and your sister was panicking *just* a little. So you know what you did? You sidled right up to her on the steps and sat down at her level. And then in the sugariest, gentlest voice you could possibly manage, this is what you said to her: “It’s oooookaaaaay, Eloise. Don’t be sad. It’s a good thing! Do you know why Daddy hugs Mommy?! It’s because he loves her. They love each other, Eloise. Isn’t that great?! It’s ok for them to be hugging, see?”  And then you hugged her and she was suddenly calm because you had said it was ok. Do you have any idea what that does for your mama’s heart?!

Today I had a moment in the car when too many things welled up at once and I started crying as your dad was driving us down the road. And there you were, in the backseat, not skipping a beat: “I’m really sorry that you’re sad, Mommy…I care about you. I care about you so much, and I love you.”

Oh, Hank, there is no possible way for me to measure your sweetness in moments or memories. It’s been some time since I’ve written to you, and somewhere in the mix you’ve traded in your toddler status and become this ridiculously great BOY. You’re adventurous and daring. You explore every interest thoughtfully and thoroughly, until you’re completely satisfied with the information you’ve gleaned. You share your enthusiasm for things with everyone you know and love. You are not afraid. You are sensitive to people’s feelings, and bold in your determination and your appetite for what is good. Your mind is fascinating. You engage your sister with gentleness and patience and honest-to-goodness joy. You make her laugh every day. You share. You teach and show her things I’d never think of, and it’s so beautiful! Your care and concern for others and the world is contagious.

You turned four just over a month ago and I feel like I’m able to witness daily what God is doing in your young heart. You don’t have to be older or taller or busier or more successful than others to have an impact on the people and places around you–you’re already doing that. As you get older, please don’t forget that there’s something special built into the depths of who you are, and it’s been there from the very beginning. Your prayers and words and actions and deeds all matter, and you are doing an amazing job cultivating each of those areas as you navigate the world.

It’s a gift to imagine what God might do with your life and to watch it unfold right in front of me. I can’t believe I’ve been so fortunate all this time…

I’ve never been more grateful or proud to be your mama–I’ve never been more delighted to have this vantage point as you discover more and more of who you are. Praying that you will flourish in whatever you set your heart on, my love, and that the God of Angel Armies will watch over you as you chase every new adventure!

love forever and ever,

mama

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for every mothering heart.

It’s quiet in the house this afternoon, and I am thankful. A part of this day feels like it’s for celebrating, and a larger part feels like it belongs to reverence. I’m never quite sure how to express that part best, but it’s weighty on my heart.

On a day when so many of us make a concerted effort to honor our mothers, we can’t help but reflect on the good parts and the hard parts that come alongside. As with most celebrations, there’s a bittersweetness that lingers with today as we recognize heartache, loss, mourning and longing in so many hearts around us–and perhaps in our own. I doubt that for any son or daughter, Mother’s Day is 100% about joy and completely void of sorrow or longing. I think of friends who have lost mothers and grandmothers in this past year, and of others who have lost children or longed for children…who are still waiting or working through deep, deep pain. There is no way to celebrate something so beautiful as motherhood without bringing up the hard parts of motherhood as well, which is why I sit here in the quiet, trying to flesh out what God would have for all of us on a day bearing such striking duality.

Mother’s Day is tricky, because it brings to light something so close to the human heart. God created us to desire the loving presence of a father and mother. He built us to long after Him, and while we most naturally think of God as a Father, He intends to fulfill the role of a mother in His love for us, too:

“For this is what the Lord says: ‘I will extend peace to her like a river, and the wealth of nations like a flooding stream; you will nurse and be carried on her arm and dandled on her knees.

As a mother comforts her child, so will I comfort you; and you will be comforted over Jerusalem.

When you see this, your heart will rejoice and you will flourish like grass; the hand of the Lord will be made known to his servants…'” Isaiah 66.12-14

Gods promises are not limited to some of us, but rather extended to all of us. I have known some of the most beautiful mothering hearts, honoring their call to motherhood in ways they never expected or hoped for before God. And I know that God sees them and honors their steadfast commitment to His calling on their hearts, whether they are mothering biological children or adopted children, praying for someday children, or extending themselves as mothers to children not their own. Nothing that our God has done or called us to is ever casual or wasted.

When we experienced miscarriage (three years ago this past week), I had already given birth to Henry. While I mourned the loss of a baby we’d never know this side of Heaven, Mother’s Day came heavy that year. At the same time, I was afraid to allow myself room to grieve and feel pain, because I also felt guilty…How could I be sad when I had already had a child and other mothers did not? How could I justify feeling lonely or forgotten when I had a daily reminder of God’s faithfulness right in front of me? It took me a long while to understand that God saw my pain equally and grieved that pain with me, as the Comforter of all hurts and heartache:

“…Yet no sooner is Zion in labor than she gives birth to her children. Do I bring to the moment of birth and not give delivery?” says the Lord. Do I close up the womb when I bring to delivery?” says your God.

Rejoice with Jerusalem and be glad for her, all you who love her; rejoice greatly with her, all you who mourn over her. For you will nurse and be satisfied at her comforting breasts; you will drink deeply and delight in her overflowing abundance.” Isaiah 66.8-11

I am once again reminded that God is not mean, and He is not poor. He does not allow pain without a purpose for that pain. He does not carry us all the way through labor just to deny us delivery. Instead, He actually promises delivery for those of us who trust Him with our lives. With our hurts. With our infertility, our miscarriages, our tragedies, our deep, deep longings.

This Mother’s Day, I am convinced that the day leaves room for both celebration and mourning on purpose. God didn’t declare the holiday, but, as with all things, He has carved intention within it. Motherhood is beautiful. It should be celebrated, because it was designed in God’s image and is one of the most tangible ways we can reflect and experience God in our earthly lives. It is strong and delicate, and it will stretch those with motherly hearts just as far as we can possibly go. Today, I am thankful for all of the hearts of mothers that I have known, and I think especially of those who wait for God to define just how their motherly hearts will be used for His purposes. As I do with my own heart, I am trusting that God has designed yours with a deep purpose, and that He will continue to bring delivery as we experience the labor pains of His call to motherhood in our lives.

Happy Mother’s Day to every mama heart. I am so thankful for and humbled by each of you!

mm

 

 

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1:30am and vulnerability.

Confession: I have been living in a rut that I’m just dying to get out of. I’m up late tonight (and so many nights), feeling like I need to put another stake in the ground. Like I need to declare this moment as a turning point…and it’s got to be. It just has. to. be.

I’m awake in the middle of my living room at this unholy hour, because I am fighting a battle that feels like it’s against flesh and blood when I know it’s so much more than that. My chest is heavy, as they’ve all been in this house for the past few days. Everyone has taken their turn with a nasty cold gone wrong, and thankfully (but miserably), I am trailing the pack. This means the kiddos are improving daily and Jason is on the upswing, but I’m still working my way through the worst parts. I’ve mentioned it before, but I am not a good patient. And I’ve had far more practice in the past few months than I ever imagined, which challenges me to my core. I am much better at being the nurse than the patient. So much better.

The reality I’m facing isn’t life or death, although we’ve worked through all of those fears and emotions for more than one of us in this house since December, which feels like more than enough. The truth is that I’ve been down or working hard to take care of someone who is down for nearly all of the days of 2015, and I am weary.

I am weary of trying so hard every day to find the silver lining in all of the mess. I am weary of carrying guilt for not just being grateful all of the time, in spite of life’s challenging imperfections. I am weary of asking more of our kiddos than should be asked of them at almost four and one and a half years old. I am weary of saying “no” to the little ones I love so much, simply because my emotional self or my physical self quite honestly can’t say “yes.” I am weary of feeling blurry and unsure around the edges instead of sharp and with it and pulled together. This is outside of my comfort zone…a place I never planned to be or to stay for very long at all. But God is up to something.

God is up to something and all I can surmise is that the enemy hates it. Life has thrown so many distractions at our little family in the past four months that sometimes I can hardly breath. Or I feel like I’m just treading water and getting nowhere, instead of making progress forward like (what feels like) everyone else around me.

I’m writing tonight, because after some time in prayer and hashing things out with both God and in warfare, I feel like all of these lies of inadequacy and stagnancy and suffocating need to be exposed. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I’m not the only mom (or woman or person) who has faced these lies since 2015 began, and feeling alone on top of everything else is like one big kick when you’re already down.

As best as I can remember, I haven’t had an ear infection since I was a kid. All day today, my ears and head have been ringing and pounding–reverberating with the awfulness that is this (springtime?) cold. So why of all nights, when I’m physically sick and dizzy and overtired, would God keep me awake at this hour? Because for all of these days that I’ve felt like I’m a battle ground for something, I am. And for the sake of what I feel called to do, I know that God is asking me to dig my heels in even deeper. Tonight, that means prayer and to be honest here in this space. Wherever that meets you, if it meets you, wherever you are. Or wherever that puts me, on the trajectory that God has for my life and journey as a wife, a mother, a child of the most extraordinary King.

There have been few moments in the last, very long string of days that I can recall not feeling dependent on God. I haven’t done a stellar job of reflecting that in my actions at all times, but I am truly, truly in a new and further abandoned place with the Lord. I don’t like this kind of vulnerability, and yet, I do. I’m safer here, more fully sold out for a God who knows all of my days and all of my needs, insecurities, misgivings and fears, long before I’m ever aware of them.

This is a crazy journey we’re on, and I am doing my best to be enthusiastic that it means beautiful things are on the horizon. I’m depending on that truth, because this life is so fleeting, and our troubles are light and momentary, even when they feel weighty and everlasting. We’re promised as much. Glory be to the God who is able to do far more than we ever dare to ask, dream or imagine. Infinitely more than our highest hopes…He calls us to ask Him, and we need to and should. I need Him every hour.

mm