MollyMadonna.com

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State of the Union. (86)

It’s blustery outside tonight. The sound of the howling wind and rain combined is one I’d expect near the end of autumn. It feels much more like tea and slippers weather than Memorial Day Weekend fare, but we do live in the Midwest, where anything is possible until after the holiday. I’m so glad our plants aren’t in the ground yet, but I’m still hopeful we’ll be able to make some gardening headway over the long stretch of weekend ahead.

Goodness, we’re all ready for a long weekend. Tomorrow marks 28 weeks for baby, but the buzz around here is much more related to last days of school and field day than how far along we are on the baby countdown. I’ll admit that the last days of school make for a very exciting time, even if I’m still over here counting other things, too. It’s a beautiful time to celebrate all the good that’s taken place in another strange and unfamiliar year.

When we wake up tomorrow, C will be off to his last day of his first year in school. It’s threeschool, mind you, but his first foray out into the world without mom and dad. He’s come to love it, and to love particular elements of his school days that really suit his personality, energy and interests. It’s been really good for my heart to see him flourish elsewhere–not because I don’t love having him here, but because I think he’s really enjoyed having something that’s just his own. This is probably timely as God prepares C’s heart and mind to become a big brother. To watch him take ownership and be proud of his own thing feels like a very helpful step as we look to this next chapter. Tonight as we tucked kiddos in, C said, “I’m the best. Except for the baby, who’s the best.” Ha! You’ve got to love the uncompromised confidence that comes with being so young. I’ll empower that all the day long if I’m able.

Tomorrow also marks E’s last day of 1st grade, which means my last day of homeschooling for this year. This feels like a giant accomplishment for both of us, and perhaps this year more than others. It was a time for flexibility and change, for balancing the dynamics of two kiddos in school (but one of those part-time) and one at home every day without a program to supplement what we were learning here. I can’t get over how much E has matured and grown in this year of studying together. She has taken on so many responsibilities (some that we’ve asked of her and many on her own), and I’m so thankful for the front row seat as she becomes more of who God is creating her to be. She is dependable and responsible in a way that often takes me by surprise (though maybe it shouldn’t). Her sisterhood sandwiched between two brothers brings out a motherly bent that is beautiful to witness. I’m so delighted for her for the growth she’s shown this year–not only in school, but in life and music lessons and dance and as a sister. I know that God is preparing her for her new role as we welcome baby at the end of summer. She’s already such a help to me, and no doubt, she’ll dote on this little one with intentionality and gentleness.

H is gearing up for his last week of school, too, marking time with things like baseball games, a spring music performance, running his first race and planning on field day activities. He tried out instruments this week for the possibility of band next year, is gearing up for a week of overnight summer camp and is still devouring books as though his life depended on it. I can tell that he’s prepping his heart and mind to add another sibling to the mix, too, but mostly for the toll he knows parenting takes in those early days. Being a baby whisperer in his own right, he will welcome a new baby with great joy. I can’t wait to see him holding and loving on this little one with his tender heart and big brother spirit.

All in all, it feels like we’re just moving forward one day at a time as you do, but with thoughts of days ahead that we know to anticipate and that still seem a little out of reach. I’m loving this season of collaboratively celebrating what is to come while still being the family of five that we’ve grown accustomed to for so long. This coming weekend, being together and just doing normal family life will be what we all need…progress around the house and outside, for sure, but also just time to slow down a little and to welcome the change of seasons from the emotional side just as much as the physical one. I’m really grateful for all of the milestone moments that have happened here lately, and equally as grateful to think about entering into some days that have a different cadence about them.

Until then, there’s much to celebrate in our current state; the ending of things just as others are beginning feels right and good. And for now, it’s time to tuck in for the night and embrace the need for warmer blankets on the cusp of a season where we (I?) surely won’t need them. Rest well, all,

MM

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another fresh start.

What is it about birthdays? I fall asleep one age and wake up another, and the day takes on a life of its own that feels different than the rest. You, too?

I’ve heard many adults say it’s “just another day,” but that’s not really how I feel about it. Just as with the new year in January and the start of a school year each September, a birthday feels like a fresh start to me. Let’s call it capitalizing on an opportunity—I can always use a fresh start.

It wasn’t until last year that I asked for time for my birthday, and Jason has been gracious enough to oblige. I don’t have any major agenda today except to sit quietly, to write and pray, and to reflect with gratitude on another year on this beautiful, magnificent, captivating planet. THIS is a gift.

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In this stage of life and motherhood, I’m not sure I sit still or quiet often enough, but I ought to try. As a newer tradition then, I throw all guilt out the window as best I can on my birthday and I just GO. If I’m honest with myself, this “just go” mentality isn’t an easy one for me, and I’m wrestling that afresh these days. I’m grateful to Jason for his kind nudge.

It isn’t that I think I should be able to simply drop my responsibilities and throw caution to the wind with regularity (and today isn’t that). But even getting myself out of the house and putting down my role as mom and wife and teacher for a little while has gotten harder over time. It’s the result of a lot of factors, really, but I’ve lost myself a bit in motherhood, and I’m coming to terms with this in the quiet spaces when I do steal away.

I didn’t think I’d be here, actually. It just sort of happened. Maybe if you’re in the midst of young motherhood, you can relate. Or maybe you remember those days when your kids were young and your identity was largely based in the young family you were raising and the lives that depended on you 24/7. The past year has surprised me in a lot of ways—not the least of which is how our littlest is moving out of the toddler stage and approaching three. I didn’t imagine I wouldn’t be changing tiny diapers or still nursing or juggling infant gear by now, but I’m holding our baby’s hand instead of carrying him more and more; I’m soaking in every possible snuggle and bedtime rocking session with the awareness that I might not revisit this sweet stage again. I turn the lights out on another day, and as I slowly close the door to his room I wonder where the time has gone and who we’re becoming now…who I’m becoming as my babies grow.

What is God calling me to in this season where everything is changing and I’m finally picking up on the fact that the ground has shifted under my feet?

I have thoughts about where 37 will take me—where God will lead me as He offers each day as a gift not to be assumed, but savored. I don’t want to take things for granted, and I’m learning (yet again) that His story for me always turns out better than the one I continue to try writing for myself. I want to fit so many pieces into the puzzle so I can see it all clearly, and God keeps handing me just one fragment at a time—for good reason.

I may be a year older, and I *might* be a tad wiser, but I have far to go. Leaning in and listening closely is perhaps the best way for me to let plans unfold. Though I love every bit of being a mom to young kiddos, God is reminding me that my motherhood is best served when I don’t forget who I was before diapers and homeschool and all that’s come with parenting for me. I’m working on making space for life-giving passions (like writing and doula work) that aren’t mutually exclusive, because God keeps nudging me there.

It’s scary to let go and it’s scary to pick things back up, too, but it’s probably time. So I’m nervous, but not afraid. I’m hopeful and curious and anxious for what’s next. I think there’s more on the horizon to share, and that gets me excited—even with just a few pieces of the puzzle in view.

Here’s to 37, and to each of us growing into who we’re called to be, a little more, every day.

mm

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a note for today.

Mother’s Day. A day for all kinds of feelings to come to the surface. Jason and the kiddos gifted me with some time to myself this afternoon, and I’m grateful. No doubt I’m feeling all of the feelings today.

I just scrolled through IG, and posts run the gamut—celebrations of motherhood from every angle—sensitive posts acknowledging all of the women who are missing their mamas today or longing to be called mama themselves, photos of beautiful babies who are dreams and miracles come true, amazing women I feel so privileged to do life alongside.

I wanted to write the perfect, thoughtful post, but as much as I love words, I don’t have the right ones to offer today.

I understand both sides of the coin as best as I’m able, and based on my personal experience. That’s the very best I can do. Today, I celebrate the three incredible babies who have made me a mom—visibly—this side of Heaven. And I also celebrate and miss and remember the three sweet babies I never had the joy of mothering here on earth. Six lives that all matter equally to me. Six lives that matter equally to God.

To the world, we are a busy family of five with three healthy children, living the dream. I don’t take it for granted, these precious lives entrusted to us—not for one day. And I am so, so thankful for all that God has done. Yet, my heart knows the ache of longing, too. The reality of life here on earth is that we experience pain and loss right along with joy and abundant graces, and they’re not mutually exclusive.

I miss our three who aren’t here with us. I do. And the only thing that can fix the deep ache in me as their mama is to keep my eyes fixed on God, who bears the burden right with me and offers joy to replace what has been lost.

Mother’s Day. It looks different to each one of us. There’s no perfect path to motherhood—not in a fallen world. It’s OK that we wrestle with this, and even that we wrestle with God over it at times. He is a perfect Father who longs to meet us where we are—expectant, broken, hopeful, discouraged, barren or quiver full.

Longing for our heavenly three while I do my best to love our living three well, it brings me to the feet of my Father daily. This is a gift sometimes cloaked in confusion or ache, but a gift all the same. The longer I trust that God’s story for me is better than the one I could write on my own, the closer I draw to the healing hem of Christ, who heals my mother heart through the Father’s heart little by little, again and again.

Happy Mother’s Day to every mama heart today. God put this longing inside of us for a reason, and it wasn’t by mistake. I pray that He will continue to reveal Himself to each of us in ways that allow us to live into our hearts and callings with great joy and the fullness of His peace.

much love,

mm

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still coming along.

Today is my birthday, and I asked to have time alone. It’s been a hard year. It’s been an especially hard few months. I’m craving time by myself because I’m rarely solo, and the daily noise that’s hard to hush lends little space for breathing deep or simply being, for processing or healing. I feel selfish saying it, though I know it’s self-preserving to admit—I need all of the space and healing I can get right now.

There’s no clear cut path to healing, I’m pretty sure of it in my old age. I’ve convinced myself a lot of days that I’m fine, but I can feel the not-fine sitting just below the surface.

I ran into a friend yesterday who I haven’t seen in a long time. She asked how I was doing and I was honest. We talked for a few minutes about life and what’s moving and happening for both of us, and then she offered me grace. She said, “You don’t have to be fine because it’s not fine. Permission to not be OK.” She’s right, and I’ve missed her, and our intersection was timely.

It’s OK to not be OK.

I don’t know why our culture makes it so not OK to not be OK. I really don’t. The truth is, we’re a bunch of people all moving through life with our own stuff. And sometimes we’re OK. Better, even. But when we’re not OK, we tend to walk around feeling like we ought to be, and instead of granting ourselves the permission to be hurting, we heap guilt on ourselves instead. The voices get loud.

We’re not ______ enough. We’re too _______.

In this “not OK” space, we’re vulnerable, so we’re more easily convinced to buy into the lie that we’re burdensome, weak, alone. I’m writing this and being reminded at the same time that God promises to carry our burdens, to be strong when we’re weak, to be our ever-present help in times of trouble. Sometimes when I’m not OK, It’s harder to dig down and remember who God is and what he says, too.

So, there’s this. Here’s what I can offer in my not-OK birthday ramblings as I set sights on a new year and aim to project hope into my own circumstances, just as I desire to infuse it into yours:

We have permission to not be OK. It’s not a “get out of jail free” card on life, but it is a pass to downshift for a time while we practice holding grief and joy in the same space…while we pursue help and healing. It’s an acknowledgement that we live in a broken world, and that we might feel broken in it.

We’re not alone, but our space can be lonely.

We may be surrounded, when all we crave is space.

We might find space and feel uncomfortable and messy in it while we scramble to get a better sense of what’s next.

As I type, I’m sitting in the car down the street from the chapel where Jason and I were married. I left the house unsure of where I was headed this morning, but as I drove, I felt drawn to go and sit in a space where God has done a lot of work in my heart. I walked up to the chapel doors to find them locked. Someone came and opened the door, but only to tell me that the chapel was closed and I couldn’t come in.

Burdened. Weak. Alone. I’d thought I was onto something by coming here, and then one more “no” closed in on me when I needed it least. I walked back to the car and ugly cried in the front seat. Not getting inside the chapel felt personal. It yelled all of the things at me that I’ve heard on repeat lately, “You’re not worthy. You’re not wanted. You don’t belong.” “Shouldn’t a chapel be a place you can go freely and enter in with God?” I started thinking. Sure, maybe. I had to be careful not to place my own sense of rejection onto my belief about God and who he is for me, right now.

I rarely attempt to go to a church space (outside of Sundays) to find God there. He shows up most to me in nature, in the mundane, in my children, in the everyday. I know better than to think he’s off limits just because the chapel doors are locked, but man, it would be so easy to buy into that lie and stay there if I wanted to.

I’m 36 this morning and I’m not entering it with ease. If I dig deep down, I know that this will change—I just have to allow myself the space to heal, and to let pain be pain, when it comes.

It feels good to write something down…to pound it out. I knew, at least, that I needed that today. Like anything worth fighting for, this being real with these feelings and sitting in the yuck feels uphill to me. As I’m climbing, I know God is building muscles I’ve not developed just yet. I hope that as he strengthens me, I can put my strengths to good use.

How does a date on the calendar make us stop and think harder, or feel gratitude or ineptitude or cause so much self-reflection? Since we all do it, I’m thinking God built that into us as humans. Maybe it’s a birthday, or an anniversary, or the remembrance of a hard loss or a really great victory, but whatever the case, we feel because we were meant to feel, and we attach meaning to dates and take them to heart because our past and our present both shape us for what is to come.

God has graced me with 36 years on this planet thus far, and I have a lot of figuring out to do yet. If I measure where I am by the worldly things, I’m not quite sure where I stand. What I do know is that God is stirring up some things in me that I didn’t know were possible ten years ago, or even five. I stopped growing taller a very long time ago, but the growth happening where I can’t see it is still coming along. I hope I’m granted many more years to become more and more like the person God designed me to be—the one who grows through what’s hard and what’s not OK, and someone who offers grace and permission to others where they need it, when they need it, too.

it’s good to be back here.

love and grace,

mm

Birthday Peonies

birthday beauties.

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you are Henry. you are six.

Oh, Buddy.

How did we get here so fast? Maybe the fact that I’m writing you a whole week past your birthday is good evidence that things are moving faster than I can keep up. As always, I long for more time with you, I ache to dedicate more time to you, I wish I could free up my hands better to do more for you. And the truth is, I’m probably always going to feel that way as your mom, no matter how well things are going, or how beautiful a spot of 24 hours might be with you. There will forever be more in my heart than I can show you in the flesh. That’s just how this parenting gig goes. I pray that someday you’ll have babies of your own, and then you’ll know just exactly what I mean.

Henry, love, you turned six last week. SIX. The night before your birthday, I thought back to that night in the hospital with your dad as we waited for you, knowing so very little of what was to come and feeling all of the anticipation I could ever feel just before seeing your perfect face and bringing you close to soak you in. I won’t forget that night, not ever. Nor how you came forth with gusto at 3 a.m. on the dot, the time of your birth telling, even then, of your precision and personality. You were a marvel to me and to all of us who love you, and you still are.

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If I could tell you any one thing today that would cement in your heart forever, it would be that you are loved at all times, no matter what. You know that God loves you, and you know that Christ died for you. You can repeat back to me that I love you “a crazy ton!” and you’re good at having all of the right things to say. But there are days when I wonder if you know that you know that you know that we love you deeply, widely, with all of us, and that you can always rest there and find peace.

Your heart is a lot like mine, sweet boy. Willing to pour out and love hard and forgive over and over again, always searching for the best in someone, finding the silver lining when things get tough. That’s all beautiful to me, but because I can recognize it, I also know how tricky it can be to keep that pace and take that angle every single time. Your capacity to love will sometimes mean you accept things you shouldn’t, you feel guilty when you don’t need to, and you take on the aches and pains of others as your own, without realizing the cumulative cost. I see this in you, and it’s sometimes hard when I notice that you’re already learning about disappointment and hurt on a deeper level than I want your six year old heart to understand.

As your mama, I want to protect you from things, and sometimes to a fault. I’ve gotten better at just letting you go–to run and jump and explore and fall and fail and get back up again. I have to do that. But I’m afraid we rush things in this life, so there’s this nagging voice in the back of my head that tells me you need to grow tougher, faster, when really, you don’t. You need to be a little boy, and to learn the world through little kid eyes. You do not need to grow up any faster. While you’re small, be small. Time is going more quickly than any of us likes, anyway.

You are smarter than I ever was at your age, and the way you think about things always stops me in my tracks to think differently about them, too. It’s one of my very favorite thing about you. Your mind is always going, and you have so many creative ideas! Sometimes my impatience as a grown up stifles this part of who you are, but that’s my weakness, not yours. Your attention to detail and the care you put into everything that matters to you will serve you well at every stage of your life. Don’t change that part of you for anyone, OK? God made you so wise and so sharp for a reason. The world needs you to be who He created you to be.

I could go on and on for days to you, Henry David. You were the first baby I ever loved as a mama, and you’re always going to be. I know you know that you get to stay my little boy forever–in your thoughtful way, you verbally remind me of that on days when you’re so clearly growing up and you can tell it’s bittersweet for me…your sensitivity to the feelings of others is a gift.

Of course, there are things in this stage of life for you that aren’t perfect, and I’m not writing you to pretend that we always get things right, or that there’s never any bumps in the road. We have plenty, you and I. Being so much alike, we clash. Wanting to care for each other well, we’re painfully aware of when we get it wrong. I forget you’re six sometimes, and I expect too much. You forget I only have two hands and two ears sometimes, and you get frustrated when things can’t be focused on you. That’s totally fair. I would feel the same way if I was six and had as much to contribute as you do! We’ll keep working on that balance.

What do I love most about you these days, sweet boy? Oh my goodness, I adore your heart for your siblings. You love them so well, and you care about how they feel. This morning, you read your bible on the floor next to Crosby while he played, and as I peeked around the corner to check on your both, there was such gratitude in my heart. He loves you so much already, and he is at peace with you, which is a treasure. Eloise loves to adventure with you, and she’ll do anything you suggest so long as you’re caring for her in your way as you go. You are a natural born leader, which means there’s lots of love in our house when you’re loving, and lots of crazy in our house when you unleash your wild side. You’re my right hand during the week when dad is at work, and that’s a pretty tall order for a six year old. You weather it well.

I love that you’re reading so well, and diving into stories over and over again of your own volition. I love your appetite for learning. I also love to watch you run–so much energy bursting out of you from every side. I love that you notice things. I love how you pray. I am thankful every single day that I’m your mama–even on the hardest ones. God knew what he was doing (of course!) when He let us borrow you for this life.

IMG_5154I hope to keep you forever and ever, but I also pray that I will steward our time together well, so that someday, you’re ready to take on this great, big world. You are only six, and I can already see the plans swirling around you for the future. It is bright with you in it, precious boy. It is so, so bright!

i do love you a crazy ton, and then i love you some more!

mama