I stepped out of the shower to the smell of pancakes on a griddle. Both a grace and anguish on a rare morning when I knew my kitchen was spotless. Not just clean, but spotless. Was being the operative word there.
Kids in the kitchen equates to the death of clean countertops. And floors. Also, potentially, drawer pulls, faucet levers, refrigerator and dishwasher handles, and cabinet fronts, to name a few. It’s really quite impressive.
Of course the creative kid didn’t just make simple pancakes. He simmered down the last of the berries I had hoped to eat with yogurt for lunch. He whisked and stirred, folded and flipped, to the manner of 45 dirty dishes, berry and batter drippings in his wake. You think I’m exaggerating, but I promise that is what my eyes see, my heart feels, when I step into my clean just-a-minute-ago kitchen.
Cereal. Can you not just eat cereal when I’m in the shower and unavailable to help oversee the mess-making? The battle for gratitude rages in light of my immediate reality. He made breakfast, but he made a mess. He was helpful, but he made more work for me. Games of tug-o-war get trickier with age.
Practiced mamas will tell you to have the child help clean up that mess. Moms in the trenches know that pancake batter dries like cement while you blink. You will need a paint scraper to remove it. And a kitchen cleaned by little people will rarely involve countertops that shine, no matter how hard they try.
When she was 7, my daughter loved the Jesus Storybook Bible version of the Rachel and Leah story. Loved it. One day she asked me why they said Leah was ugly when in the illustration she didn’t look very ugly. Fair question. I came up with the only answer I could think of while I attended to some other housekeeping task. “I’m not sure she was ugly. I think Rachel was beautiful, lovely. By comparison that made Leah less lovely – kind of average.”
Mothers, we never know how or when our most innocent or well-intended words will re-surface.
A week later my daughter was in her homeschool co-op class. When discussing math terms the teacher asked if anyone knew what average meant. Wouldn’t you know that my girl would shoot her hand up proudly and announce to class that average is “when a girl is not really pretty or really ugly. She’s just average.”
I wasn’t even there to defend myself. Just hung out to dry in the minds of all the other mamas in that room. What in the world is Katie teaching her girls? A Bible story excuse seems like a pretty lame defense at times like these, but you can I bet I used it anyway when the giggling moms re-counted the story to me later. “Oh, no. It’s not what you think. You see, she was reading this Bible story…” My voice was a couple octaves higher than usual. I’m pretty sure I was sweating.
But this is motherhood. You don’t offer your 9-5, your efforts or your talents or gifts. You offer it all. Your weak and tired, vulnerable and misunderstood, all of it. The job goes long beyond what you can give and it takes more. It takes your hopes and dreams and places them on other human beings who you only think you have control of. It takes your pride and places it in the wobbly lips of a 7 year old as she innocently announces your assumed standards of beauty to everyone. This is motherhood.
Motherhood begins with the death of your sleep cycle. We think that’s hefty, no doubt it is, but that’s only the beginning. It’s the death of clean countertops and everything else. It’s the death of your waistline, or at least the one you had without a fight. You’ll find it’s the death of your easy patience, the end of your energy. It is the death of expectations and quite possibly hopes and dreams of the way you thought your life would play out as those older kids chart their own course. It’s the fast track to seeing your sin tendencies on display, ready to aim and fire in the daily pressure points or, even worse, in the hearts and on the lips of your own children.
I’m painting a pretty ugly picture here, but thank God we don’t end there.
Because mothers who believe are not left desperate and hopeless. Mothers who believe know that the resurrection power we celebrated last month lives in us today (Rom 8:11). We know a God “who gives life to the dead and calls into existence the things that do not exist” (Rom 4:17). That verse right there brings tears. Knowing every degree of my own weaknesses, my own short comings, my owns selfishness and pride, I had also better know that this is the God who knows me and sees me and calls me something more. This is the God who interjects wildly on behalf of those who believe in His promise.
Motherhood is likely the most sanctifying work you will ever do. It will keep you on your knees daily. Seeking the Father’s heart daily. Asking for guidance daily.
What a beautifully tethering.
You know that old hymn, I Need Thee Every Hour? It was written by Annie S. Hawks in 1872, a 37 year old mother of three going about her regular household work. Of course it was, because this job we’re doing is the most beautiful opportunity to offer the humble and brave invitation – every hour, we need you here, God. Most days it demands that.
May we have the courage to let the work we do as mothers not define us, but refine us. As image bearers, may this daily sanctification shine His light brighter to our kids, to our husband, to a world who desperately needs this Light, this Hope, far more than our floundering excuses or fake and filtered perfection.
Mamas, we have a lifelong job, a lifelong opportunity to let our growing and changing role, our shifting seasons, be the very tethering of our hearts to our Creator. It’s hard work and beautiful work and important work. Can we be brave enough to let it be that? Vision enough to see it? Faith enough to believe it?
Let’s not just endure it, let’s run toward this work, which, done well, will always look like running toward Christ.
I’m running right along with you.
And Happy Mother’s Day, friend. The work you are doing is so very important. Thank you for doing it with courage.
