Kindred Mom Podcast

Laura Bass shares a story about loving our kids even when things don’t go according to plan. Now you can find the Kindred Mom book, Strong, Brave, and Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, wherever books are sold. Subscribe to the Kindred Mom newsletter and receive a preview of the book today! Photo by Timothy Eberly on Unsplash “Mommy said dammit, mommy said dammit.”  The post office was silent, other than the 2-year-old on my hip loudly proclaiming to the packed pre-holiday post office line that I had said dammit. I, in fact, had not said anything–I was standing in silence other than the occasional “shh” to my child, who I kept switching from hip to hip to accommodate my just-starting to show baby bump. I whispered “shhh” yet again, hoping he would forget the unfortunate word he overheard at a recent football game, but he studied my face, rapidly turning into the shade of a beet, and decided that getting louder was the only reasonable response.  “Mommy said dammit, Mommy said dammit,” he sang out, again and again. I glanced around the post office, seeing both furtive smiles and disapproving glances cast my way. An intimidating man in full military dress stood behind me, expressionless, and I wondered what he was thinking. We’d already spent more than twenty minutes in line, and I knew the line would only get longer each day as the calendar moved closer to Christmas. I tried to calculate how much longer we had left before we reached the front. I needed to get this package in the mail.  Sweating profusely and bright red, embarrassed, I was unsure of what to do. Should I abandon my place in line to go discipline my child? Did he even know that dammit was a bad word? Why was he choosing this moment to repeat this word, to draw it out from the recesses of his brain? Would it be worth it to get out of line to discipline him if it made the last twenty minutes I’ve spent waiting, twenty minutes that were cutting into precious naptime, irrelevant? Or should I just suck it up, and deal with the embarrassment, knowing I probably wouldn’t see any of these people again, and get my package mailed? I’m not sure what the right choice was, but I was pregnant and I was tired, and I wasn’t coming back to the post office. We were getting the package in the mail and that was that, no matter how embarrassed I was. I tried the gentle sing-song voice: “Hey buddy, let’s not say that, okay?” I tried ignoring him.  I tried hissing angrily through my teeth, “Stop saying that!”  I tried distraction techniques: “Look, play with my keys! Look, those stamps on the bulletin board have Charlie Brown on them!”  I even tried to reason with him, knowing full well that two-year-olds are unreasonable and I was wasting my breath. “Hey buddy, mommy wasn’t even talking, I didn’t say anything at all. Let’s just be quiet for a minute okay?”  He’d pause for a few minutes and the fire would start to fade from my cheeks. Just as soon as I thought we were in the clear, he’d start up again.  “Mommy said dammit, mommy said dammit.” The line crawled forward and I did my best to avoid eye contact. Finally, I made it to the counter and purchased the postage, sliding my package over the dull beige counter with relief. Taking a deep breath, I forged to the door, looking at the sidewalk as I walked out into the crisp air. “Mommy said dammit, mommy said dammit,” echoed around me as I hurried to the car. Sliding the minivan door open, I quickly buckled him into his seat and sank into the driver’s seat. Hot tears spilled from my eyes and I rested my head on the steering wheel. ** I spotted my 3-year-old on the playground climbing wall, a sleeping baby snuggled against me in the Ergo, when I saw my 6-year-old running toward me. His face was white and he was followed by two moms with serious expressions.  “This can’t be good,” I thought. He started sobbing the second he reached me and one of the moms pointed towards the playground structure. “He fell, all the way from the top… it looked like he just lost his balance… and he landed head first. He popped right up, but his neck… it looked like he jammed it.” I gave him a quick glance over, checking for obvious signs of injury, and held him, awkwardly with the baby strapped to my chest. Rubbing his back with one hand, I scrolled through my phone with the other, looking for the pediatrician’s number. “That must have been so scary, buddy. I’m just going to call the doctor real quick because you fell from so high.” The phone rang as I asked the other moms, “How high up do you think he fell from? I’m going to see if the pediatrician can check him out.” “Probably eight feet,” said one.  “I hope he’s okay,” said the other. “I can’t believe he just popped right up like that… it was a really scary fall.” “Thank you so much for bringing him over here,” I said as the doctor’s office picked up. I explained the situation to the receptionist as panic at the internal injury possibilities and shame for not being right there, somehow able to prevent the fall, battled inside me. “Yes, go ahead and head this way, we’ll squeeze him in,” said the receptionist. My 3-year-old was not pleased to leave the park. My 6-year-old was still sobbing. The baby looked around in confusion, rubbing his eyes sleepily. I called my husband on the way to the doctors office.  “I’ll meet you there,” he said.  I squeezed the double stroller into the exam room, sat my 6-year-old on the exam table. He was no longer sobbing, but was subdued, the occasional tear still falling down his cheek.  Usually, taking all three kids to the doctor is planned carefully. What time of day will everyone be the least cranky? Do we have plenty of snacks and distractions? Is our favorite doctor, the one who wears ties adorned with Mickey Mouse and Elmo and has the voices to match, available? Exactly none of these things were the case for this last minute appointment. It was inching closer to dinner time, and my 3-year-old was holding tight to his resentment about having to leave the park suddenly. The doctor walked in, a no-nonsense woman close to retirement, and appraised the situation. My 3-year-old was refusing to stay in the stroller, wildly throwing his limbs about and screaming, attempting to snatch a toy from his baby brother. “If we can’t behave, you’ll have to get buckled,” I told him, greeting the doctor in the same breath. This only increased the volume of his screams. He was most definitely not behaving.  Over his screams, I tried to give the doctor the pertinent information.  She nodded, turned to examine my oldest as I continued to struggle with my middle child. She piped in once, telling him firmly but not unkindly that he needed to listen to me, and his epic tantrum finally faded to hiccuping tears. My cheeks were bright red, both from the embarrassment and the wrestling match. “It sounds like quite a fall, but he got lucky—I think he’ll just be sore for a day or two. Come back tomorrow, just so we can make sure nothing pops up after the fact,” she said, completing her examination. As she typed the notes into her computer, she added “You did a really good job handling that tantrum, mom. Calm and firm, that’s the way to handle those.” I nodded, whispering a “thank you” as my eyes filled with tears. Now that I knew my son was okay, now that my other son’s tantrum had ceased, the adrenaline disappeared and I found myself exhausted and emotional.  My husband arrived at the office just as the doctor was exiting the room. We walked to the parking lot together and I recapped the appointment. Almost shyly, at the end, I said, “She told me I did a good job handling the tantrum.” He whistled. “She’s not the type to give out compliments, just because.” He was more familiar with the doctors than I was, having been a patient at this practice as a child. “Sounds like you had it all handled, babe. Great job.” ** “I don’t WANT to go to church,” yelled one of my kids.  I rolled my eyes and with clenched teeth, said for the fourth time, “We are going so get dressed.” By the time we got in the car, there had been more meltdowns than I care to count. Our dog, feeling separation anxiety after we’d been away for a week, climbed in the car after the kids. My husband looked at me, eyebrows raised, “Church is outside…?” “That’s fine,” I said. “She can come.” My kids had finally gotten dressed in the church clothes I’d picked out, but I didn’t even bother to tell them to put on their church shoes. Church was outside, and after so many months of virtual church due to the pandemic, I didn’t even have church shoes in everyone’s size. Tennis shoes would do. No one’s socks matched their outfit. I was raised in a Sunday best kind of house and church, and though our church is much more casual, it can be hard to shed expectations ingrained in your childhood. A few years ago, I might have apologized to anyone who would have listened, “I know they aren’t wearing their church shoes–we just couldn’t get it together this morning.” A few years ago, I would have never entertained the idea of letting our dog come to church, even if it was outside. I spent the first ten minutes of church trying to quietly coax my toddler over to our seats. He was much more interested in the parking lot. When I finally settled in a chair, my four-year-old announced loudly he needed to go potty. In the middle of the sermon, the quiet game two of my children had been playing turned into a loud shout of “SUPERCHARGED!” Sobs over a skinned knee rose above the prayers of the people.  By the end of the service, I looked at my husband and said, “Well, the dog was the best behaved out of all of them.” There was a time that my anxiety over my children’s behavior during the church service would have skyrocketed. I would have felt the scalding eyes of judgment with each noise that came from one of my children.  I have fallen into the trap of believing a mother’s job is to have perfectly behaved kids. I have felt shame flush my cheeks when my children were not acting like I thought they should. I have berated myself for being the mother whose child screams “dammit” in the post office, whose child falls eight feet off of a playground structure, whose child is throwing a tantrum in the doctor’s office, whose children weren’t perfectly behaved during a church service. But any mother knows; children are unpredictable. Despite our best efforts to teach them how to act in civilized society, they are impulsive and have their own ideas about how things should go. Children, like all of us, make mistakes.  Children—and their mothers—deserve grace. A mother’s job isn’t to handle every situation flawlessly (mothers are human, too). A mother’s job is to love, even when—especially when—things don’t go according to plan.  Just like the doctor who offered grace and encouragement when my son was having an epic meltdown in her office, I can extend grace to myself—and to others—who are showing up day after day and muddling through the messiness of motherhood. Laura Bass is a native North Carolinian who lives in a house full of boys. She spends her days picking up Legos, encouraging creativity in her kids, and filling all her free minutes with words—both writing and reading them. She can be found blogging at www.laurapbass.com or on Instagram.

Theresa Phillips shares a story about women cultivating strength when being stretched beyond their limits during the very process that makes them a mother. Now you can find the Kindred Mom book, Strong, Brave, and Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, wherever books are sold. Subscribe to the Kindred Mom newsletter and receive a preview of the book today! Photo by John Price on Unsplash “I’m going to die!” She screamed as the pain accosted her again, relentless waves crashing with vicious repetition. I could only speak soothing words of hope as someone from the shore, removed from the torrent but certain she had the visceral strength to survive. I threw her life rafts of encouragement, naming for her the inner strength she could not see and praising her superhuman efforts. Through fear and panic, she continued to battle each crash, because that was all she could do. There was no quitting, no going back. Nowhere to go but through the storm. So she gripped the bed rails and bowed into herself as another wave rose on the horizon.  I have never been so in awe of womankind as I am in the delivery room. I have had the privilege of attending hundreds of births as a labor and delivery nurse and have seen the resilience and strength of mothers first hand. Women who suffer immeasurable pain through contraction after contraction for hours on end, because this is the journey that leads to their sweet babe. Women who bravely walk with fear and trepidation into a c-section because it is the safest path forward for their little one. Women whose heartbreak is palpable as they hold the sweet body whose soul is already with its Maker.  The more births I am a part of, the more certain I am that there is no way to prepare a woman for what she will face in childbirth. There are no words to describe this whole new dimension of pain. There is no way to plan the course with certainty. Unmedicated, epiduralilzed, vaginal, or cesarean—it makes no difference which iteration of the process becomes hers. There will be pain. There will be struggle. The limits of her strength will be tested like never before. And while she is surrounded with support and encouragement, only she can walk this path.  A woman in birth must access reservoirs of strength she did not know she possessed and the type of bravery that is drawn out of complete and harrowing necessity. A common refrain I hear from a woman in the throes of labor is certainty that she cannot do it: cries for help because she is certain she cannot survive this journey.  But she does. Every time. She survives the unimaginable because she has to. She does what she never thought possible because it is the only way forward. And through this raw determination and superhuman effort, she is greatly rewarded. Not only with the beauty of holding the new life she created and brought forth into the world, but with a new knowledge of the depth of her own resolve and courage.  And she will need this knowledge of her own strength in the years to come, as motherhood will continue to challenge the boundaries of what she thinks she is capable of. She will continue to access the depths of her courage as she walks forward in this journey that challenges her in every way imaginable. When she is certain she cannot do another 2am feeding. When she does not see how she is going to make it through the day of laundry, dishes, and carpools. When she has to go toe to toe with a tantruming toddler because she is not willing to let defiance take hold of her sweet child. Every day, she will dig deep and rely on that quiet stream of fortitude that continues to run at the core of her soul.  The curse in Genesis reads, “I will make your pains in childbearing very severe.” The pains of labor are certainly cursed by many women who have endured such agony. And yet, like the Good Father our God is, there is beauty within the curse. For it is through this deeply painful journey that mothers discover their undeniable strength. It is through enduring the unimaginable that we learn the breadth of our resolve and courage. This knowledge goes forth with us into the motherhood journey as irrefutable evidence that we are able to do more than we ever thought possible. So on those days where we are certain we do not possess the strength to make it through, we can be certain that we will. We have endured harder things than this. We are strong. We are Mothers.   *** My patient did not die. Though she was certain she had met her match, she persevered with courage she didn’t know she had and she attained her prize. As she held her sweet baby, the reward of her efforts, there was nothing but joy on her face. Where fear and uncertainty ruled, there was now empowerment and strength. The beauty of the curse.    Theresa is a mother, author, nurse, and mom-encourager. She runs a crazy household of 4 young kids and moonlights as a labor and delivery nurse where she has the privilege of inaugurating women into this amazing society of motherhood. Before nursing, she was a therapist specializing in marriage and family therapy and had the honor of helping those in crisis. Now she marries all three areas of experience into a powerhouse of encouragement for moms. She’s like your midwife, best friend, and therapist all rolled into one! For regular encouragement in this crazy mom life, follow The Gritty Mama on Facebook or Instagram @thegrittymama.

Susan Sanders shares about redefining strong, brave and beautiful in the second half of life. Now you can find the Kindred Mom book, Strong, Brave, and Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, wherever books are sold. Subscribe to the Kindred Mom newsletter and receive a preview of the book today! Photo by Tim Mossholder on Unsplash “Sit back…Way back….More back. Reach for that teeny little chair behind you. Heels and rear inches apart….” In my mind’s eye I am there hovering over that baby chair, but with a 400 pound squat bar on my back. In my mind’s eye, it is 25 years ago. In my mind’s eye, it is pre-season college basketball workouts in a dingy, smelly weight room in the Midwest. In my actual eye, I see my 45 year old body in the mirror of my yoga studio and based on the screaming in my quads and knees, I am surprised to see my knees are only bent a few degrees and my bum is nowhere near my heels. Huh, weird. My 45 year old belly I see in the studio mirror is far from the six pack abs that belonged to the collegiate athlete who was weighed each week and when she hit her (coach’s arbitrary) scale goal was told to start dropping body fat. Young Susan did as she was told – mostly through high intensity cardiovascular workouts which were part of pre-season/in-season/post-season/off-season training programs anyway. And let me tell you––if it was on the training schedule it got done. If there is one thing Young Susan (and sometimes Today Susan, if I am being honest) loved, it was a gold star.  Gold stars meant I was worthwhile, worthy of love, good enough. Acceptable. Seen. Excuses were bullshit and unwelcome. Pain was weakness leaving the body, and good enough was neither. If there was not vomit on the track, you left something in the tank. If you could lift your backpack when you left the weight room, you wasted everyone’s time. Competition and training didn’t end with my collegiate eligibility. When I finished 4 years of basketball, I was on the varsity track team for the rest of my senior year of college. Shot put, discuss, and hammer throws required just as much explosive plyometric training and more time in the weight room. I paid for my Master’s Degree through group exercise instruction, teaching 20 classes each week for two years. This transitioned into racing triathlon where I have finished over 50 races of all distances, including Ironman. I have finished multiple half and full marathons. Swimming, biking and running after more and more gold stars all the time. Now here I am all these years later, back in the yoga studio under the fairy lights. I have had three orthopedic surgeries, and a fourth looming out there “when the pain is too much.” I no longer run. I often take every yoga modification offered (I am looking at you, knee down plank) and am often still wrung out at the end of the hour. A physical therapist is part of the healthcare team that keeps this Tin Man moving. I am 20 pounds heavier than when I was in college and can’t even blame pregnancy since I am a childless step-mother. I often take the Warm Gentle class and consider it my workout for that day – and I no longer require there to be a daily workout. Sometimes 20-year old me screams in disgust, railing at what Today Susan has done to Young Susan’s body. That’s when I gently remind her of this: what about the toll this physical output has put on the mind and soul? What are you trying to avoid? I have spent a significant amount of time, tears, money, and mental energy digging into why those gold stars are so important to me. Why I ran, stepped, biked, lifted, swam, Les Mills’ed my way into not feeling my feelings. Why I was willing to sacrifice Future Susan’s physical health for Young Susan’s numbness. I have spent a significant amount of time, tears, money, and mental energy learning a softer, gentler way of accepting what I cannot change. I have learned that my soul engages when I am in nature. The peace I feel hiking in the woods is life-giving. When I say hiking, Today Susan might mean just ambling along in sneakers on a path. It does not need to be balls to the wall hauling ass up a steep “real mountain.” Because I am making peace with all parts of myself, I draw boundaries. Boundaries with Today Susan who wants to go for a run when feelings bubble up when the kids don’t help with chores (again), there is other blended family drama, or a chaotic day at work. Boundaries with friends who want me to run “just” a 5K with them. I draw these boundaries, because the amount of time Today Susan will spend running takes away from Future Susan hiking in nature. Numbing out or people pleasing today takes away from finding peace tomorrow. That connection to peace and love is what removes the panicked need for gold stars. When I don’t need those gold stars to prove I am loved or worthy, I can slow down enough to listen to what my body needs right now. Does my body want to exert itself by running or does my ego want to (literally and figuratively) run away? Does my body want to go further into the pose or does my ego want to avoid being the only person in the room not doing the advanced pose? The investment of that significant amount of time, tears, money, and mental energy is helping me learn that I am right where I need to be today. Susan writes and teaches at SusantainableSue.com where you can find more information about Sustainable Productivity and its 3 pillars: Health and Fitness, Mental Well-being, and Environmental Surroundings. Susan’s Master’s Degree in Exercise Physiology, MBA, Project Management Professional Certification, and Professional Organizer experience give her a unique foundation to help you create a life with more fulfillment and less need to escape.

Kailyn Rhinehart is sharing a story about the grace given and the grace received through hard seasons. Now you can find the Kindred Mom book, Strong, Brave, and Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, wherever books are sold. Subscribe to the Kindred Mom newsletter and receive a preview of the book today! Photo by Ricardo Resende on Unsplash I walk through the doorway after putting her to bed. My husband is sitting down at his computer. Without a glance up from his screen he mutters, “Man, that was easy.” It’s 7:15 pm and she is already asleep. A bedtime victory in the toddler-parenting world. Our collective sigh settles over the room and, for a fleeting second, the past seasons play out in my heart. The many nights we spent asleep on the thin carpet of the hard hallway floor outside her room. Exhausted arguments over whose turn it was to rescue her from the visions of monsters at 2 am. Months of tears. Resettling her overtired body each night. Taking turns in the turmoil. Trudging back and forth into her room, we tried anything and everything not to lose our sanity between the hours of seven and midnight, while our two-year-old seemed to lose every last bit of hers. I smile almost bitterly at both the memory and my husband’s remark. I glance across the room as he looks up from his computer. His eyes meet mine. For a brief moment, we savor this bedtime of ‘easy’ together like a ragged victory after a war. *** It’s night eight. Or twelve. I am huddled in the hallway, tears marking my face. It’s 9:15 pm and we’ve been at this for hours. Her face appears in the darkness of her doorway. I quickly turn away to hide mine. She yells anything she can think of to persuade me back into her room. My husband appears at the opposite end of the hall and reaches out his hand to help me up. He quickly rubs my back in silent solidarity and trudges into the battlefield of toddler sleep struggles. We are not unfamiliar with this particular scene. Five months—seven maybe—of that same once-colicky baby screaming from her crib. Screaming on my chest. Screaming in my arms. Screaming as her daddy came in to gently relieve me then too. I shift my body away from her doorway and breathe deep, enveloped in those faded, haunting memories. I hear him go to her; she wails even louder. We are a team, hardened veterans of our daughter’s exhausting sleep patterns. I travel silently through the hallway. Defeated. Switching off the kitchen light, I hover in the darkness—in the fleeting false sense of calm—in our room across the house, I listen to my patient husband calm her. I think of the times he came to my rescue before, during those colicky, blurry months, and I am flooded with gratitude. A second later, I hear him quietly shut her bedroom door through the baby monitor. Victorious. A twinge of guilt creeps into my heart. *** I lay somewhere between the waves now, letting them crash over me. I come up for air more steadily and easily than I did before. In those seasons—the colic, the sleep regressions, the bedtime battles—I felt like I was constantly drowning. In those nights, it felt hard to breathe. I have nearly blocked out those memories now. Instead, I carry overwhelming grace for both myself and those within the walls of my home. Grace, cultivated only from the darkest depths of those seasons. Grace, through and from forgiveness. Grace that feels a bit like freedom. It’s 8:06 pm. I sit down on the bed and settle myself next to my husband, enveloped in my own feelings and memories. The monitor hums with the playback of her sound machine. I glance at her toddler body, draped between piles of stuffed animals. Blinking back past memories, I am fully present. My hand finds its way to the top of my growing belly, and when I lay on my side I can start to feel movements and flutters. They will be three years and three months apart when he arrives in December. To say I am terrified would be an understatement, but I firmly believe in the power of seasons. I believe in time and healing. I believe in the few years of experience I have been given as a mother, which has taught me more than enough to equip me. I dwell in the grace given and the grace received from the hardest of seasons. I am overcome with gratitude, despite knowing difficult ones will come again—a paradox dripping in redemption. I want to fast forward to the unknown. I wish for a lens into the next seasons, the ones with this baby. I wonder if time and circumstances will repeat themselves. Will we hover in the hallways? Will the nights be filled with tears, with wailing and exhaustion? My brain and my heart compete for answers, for hope.  When he joins us I know our seasons will play out all over again; the new, the terrifying, the overwhelming, the draining. In those seasons, in sleep regressions, tantrums, and turmoil, we will give and receive grace.  And in those and after those and all the others, we will be okay. Kailyn Rhinehart is a wife and mama to two littles, currently living wherever the military says to. She is a Kindergarten teacher turned writer, continuously learning the delicate dance of patience and grace in motherhood. Near and far, whether across the world or the street, she believes in the power of other’s stories and how they make us feel. A lover of lists, riding horses, and storytelling, you can find her on Instagram or her website.      

Melissa Hogarty is sharing a story about the joys and challenges of being a boy mom. Now you can find the Kindred Mom book, Strong, Brave, and Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, wherever books are sold. Subscribe to the Kindred Mom newsletter and receive a preview of the book today! Photo by Rae Galatas on Unsplash I stand on the landing for a moment and gather a gust of air. “Good morning, good morning!” I sing loudly, moving up the steps toward my children’s rooms. My 5-year-old daughter pops through her doorway and giggles, headbutting me in the pelvis. I keep moving, rounding the corner toward my son’s room. “Good morning to you,” I carry on in a nearly tuneless tune. My son’s door creaks open, and I reach my arms toward him for a hug. He dodges, bending his knees and ducking his head away from my fingers. In so doing, his head collides with his door jamb. He immediately howls in frustration—luckily he didn’t hit very hard—and allows me to wrap him in a very brief hug. Then he yanks his body away from my arms and grumbles through clenched teeth, “I was just trying to go to the bathroom.” From his tone of voice, I can tell he thinks I forced him to run into the wall, as if my body and his are opposing magnetic fields. I sigh. A familiar question rings through my head. Why doesn’t he want to hug me anymore? *** I have always been a hugger. I will happily hug everyone from family members to mere acquaintances. “I’m going to hug you now,” I’ll announce to warn newbies, watching carefully for signs of alarm. Most people do not turn and dash away. Even non-huggers nod and extend their arms stiffly when I declare my intent. When my son was born, I knew my hug skills would be valuable. Babies thrive on physical touch—and I was going to cuddle mine into brilliance and healthy attachment and joy. I literally embraced motherhood with all my waking energy. I remember looking down into his sleeping face when he was three months old, tucked in my weary arms, and telling myself firmly: “You are holding him enough. You hold him all day long. Never look back on this time and feel regret, wishing you had held him more.” Even years later, I am still confident I could not have held him more. But what I failed to do was memorize the way he felt next to me, the way his head nestled into the crook of my elbow, the dead weight of his trust. *** It’s a game, I know. He wants to see if he is quicker than I am, if he can evade my grasp. And I let him play it. But already on days when my fingers brush the edge of his shoulder, he will turn and scowl at me. Already I can see the story he is telling himself: that I just won’t let him go. It’s hard to imagine that the offer of a hug might turn me into the villain of his narrative, but the truth is, I’m terrified. Is this just a foreshadowing of a more thorough rejection to come? Maybe someday his artful dodges will become “Keep out” signs splashing his door or refusal to make eye contact. Maybe I will long for the baby years again, when he would smile with delight simply because I looked at him. What if his game of keep-away grows beyond the walls of our home, beyond the borders of our city—or country? Where will I be then? *** “Wrestle?” he asks with a gleam in his eye. I sigh. “I don’t really want to wrestle right now, bud,” I admit with a twinge of guilt. I do not want to be underneath a writhing pile of elbows and knees, struggling to keep my socks on my feet as my older children work together to remove them. I do not relish the idea of little fingers reaching into my armpits to tickle them. But as his face falls and he shrugs his shoulders, which are thin and angular after a recent growth spurt, I give in. “Oh, all right,” I agree, quickly bracing myself as he throws his body toward mine. Minutes later, we have rolled off the couch. I am on all fours on our bright pink rug, trying to shoo my 2-year-old daughter away from the fracas. I can hear my son behind me, preparing to rush at me again and use his scrawny weight to knock me flat. I am no ninja, but I understand the theory of allowing someone else’s momentum to work for me in a fight. In an instant, I picture what I will do: I will twist to the side as he jumps, and he will land in front of me, and then I will begin to tickle him in earnest, keeping away from his kicking feet. I hear him charge and I tense, willing my clumsy body to time this maneuver correctly. My son’s hands connect with my shoulders as I turn. Suddenly a blinding pain radiates through my face and my 2-year-old lets out a wail. “Aaaahhh!” I scream with her, squeezing my eyes closed. My hands blindly find my daughter and then reach up to my face to assess the damage. “I think you broke my nose!” I yell in an accusing tone. “What? You did that!” my son retorts indignantly. I rock back on my heels, still a bit stunned. My nose is bleeding. My glasses are off-center. My pride is injured. I hate wrestling. I allow myself to feel peevish and self-righteous as I press the bridge of my nose with my fingers. I wonder briefly if I have years of bruises and discomfort to look forward to. Suddenly I recall how my own brother used to heft my mom in the air and toss her onto plush furniture after he outgrew her. An echo of her helpless laughter rings in my ears, the exact same sound I make when a tangle of children is crushing all the air out of my lungs. Is this what it is to be a boy mom? Maybe wrestling is the little-boy version of hugging, a secret test of the strength and the resilience of my love. As I shove a tissue into my sore nose, I resolve to look for and appreciate the ways he is showing me affection—even the roughhousing. *** “Do you want to take a walk with me?” I ask, plopping down on the couch, where he is sprawled with a novel. He has to shift his body to give me enough room; I am practically sitting on him. “I have 45 minutes before I need to take your birthday pie out of the oven.” I am searching for a way to make his 8th birthday feel special, and there is nothing he likes better than undivided attention. “Sure,” he agrees. He hangs his book over the corner of the coffee table and ambles off in search of shoes. We step out the door into a perfectly warm afternoon. In silence, we make our way down the driveway. As we step into the street, my son looks up at me and extends his hand. I stare at it for the briefest of moments. A light breeze could have knocked me down. He’s going to hold my hand, I realize with amazement. It’s not a hug, but it might even be better: the promise of steady togetherness as we walk, warming us from our fingers through our spines. I cautiously wrap my hand around his and we take off, meandering through our neighborhood. I reach for something to say, anything that will be worthy of the rare gesture he is giving me. “What’s your favorite thing about yourself?” I ask him, my words keeping time with the clap of our flip-flops. He launches into a discussion of his Minecraft skills and dreams, the details of which fly into one ear and out of the other. The only thing that matters is the constant pressure of his hand in mine as we swing our arms between us. Melissa Hogarty is a habitually overwhelmed mama who is learning to slow down and sometimes say no. She lives in Northern Virginia with her husband and three kids, who regularly teach her that she has more to learn in the areas of grace, patience, and letting loose. She can often be found cuddled up with a good novel or pulling cookies out of the oven. Melissa is an editor and regular contributor at Kindred Mom and a member of the Exhale creative community. She enjoys singing with her church worship team and fellowshipping with other moms. She also writes a personal blog, Savored Grace, where you can find recipes as well as ideas about motherhood and faith.

Melissa Hogarty is sharing a story about the joys and challenges of being a boy mom. Now you can find the Kindred Mom book, Strong, Brave, and Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, wherever books are sold. Subscribe to the Kindred Mom newsletter and receive a preview of the book today! Photo by Rae Galatas on Unsplash I stand on the landing for a moment and gather a gust of air. “Good morning, good morning!” I sing loudly, moving up the steps toward my children’s rooms. My 5-year-old daughter pops through her doorway and giggles, headbutting me in the pelvis. I keep moving, rounding the corner toward my son’s room. “Good morning to you,” I carry on in a nearly tuneless tune. My son’s door creaks open, and I reach my arms toward him for a hug. He dodges, bending his knees and ducking his head away from my fingers. In so doing, his head collides with his door jamb. He immediately howls in frustration—luckily he didn’t hit very hard—and allows me to wrap him in a very brief hug. Then he yanks his body away from my arms and grumbles through clenched teeth, “I was just trying to go to the bathroom.” From his tone of voice, I can tell he thinks I forced him to run into the wall, as if my body and his are opposing magnetic fields. I sigh. A familiar question rings through my head. Why doesn’t he want to hug me anymore? *** I have always been a hugger. I will happily hug everyone from family members to mere acquaintances. “I’m going to hug you now,” I’ll announce to warn newbies, watching carefully for signs of alarm. Most people do not turn and dash away. Even non-huggers nod and extend their arms stiffly when I declare my intent. When my son was born, I knew my hug skills would be valuable. Babies thrive on physical touch—and I was going to cuddle mine into brilliance and healthy attachment and joy. I literally embraced motherhood with all my waking energy. I remember looking down into his sleeping face when he was three months old, tucked in my weary arms, and telling myself firmly: “You are holding him enough. You hold him all day long. Never look back on this time and feel regret, wishing you had held him more.” Even years later, I am still confident I could not have held him more. But what I failed to do was memorize the way he felt next to me, the way his head nestled into the crook of my elbow, the dead weight of his trust. *** It’s a game, I know. He wants to see if he is quicker than I am, if he can evade my grasp. And I let him play it. But already on days when my fingers brush the edge of his shoulder, he will turn and scowl at me. Already I can see the story he is telling himself: that I just won’t let him go. It’s hard to imagine that the offer of a hug might turn me into the villain of his narrative, but the truth is, I’m terrified. Is this just a foreshadowing of a more thorough rejection to come? Maybe someday his artful dodges will become “Keep out” signs splashing his door or refusal to make eye contact. Maybe I will long for the baby years again, when he would smile with delight simply because I looked at him. What if his game of keep-away grows beyond the walls of our home, beyond the borders of our city—or country? Where will I be then? *** “Wrestle?” he asks with a gleam in his eye. I sigh. “I don’t really want to wrestle right now, bud,” I admit with a twinge of guilt. I do not want to be underneath a writhing pile of elbows and knees, struggling to keep my socks on my feet as my older children work together to remove them. I do not relish the idea of little fingers reaching into my armpits to tickle them. But as his face falls and he shrugs his shoulders, which are thin and angular after a recent growth spurt, I give in. “Oh, all right,” I agree, quickly bracing myself as he throws his body toward mine. Minutes later, we have rolled off the couch. I am on all fours on our bright pink rug, trying to shoo my 2-year-old daughter away from the fracas. I can hear my son behind me, preparing to rush at me again and use his scrawny weight to knock me flat. I am no ninja, but I understand the theory of allowing someone else’s momentum to work for me in a fight. In an instant, I picture what I will do: I will twist to the side as he jumps, and he will land in front of me, and then I will begin to tickle him in earnest, keeping away from his kicking feet. I hear him charge and I tense, willing my clumsy body to time this maneuver correctly. My son’s hands connect with my shoulders as I turn. Suddenly a blinding pain radiates through my face and my 2-year-old lets out a wail. “Aaaahhh!” I scream with her, squeezing my eyes closed. My hands blindly find my daughter and then reach up to my face to assess the damage. “I think you broke my nose!” I yell in an accusing tone. “What? You did that!” my son retorts indignantly. I rock back on my heels, still a bit stunned. My nose is bleeding. My glasses are off-center. My pride is injured. I hate wrestling. I allow myself to feel peevish and self-righteous as I press the bridge of my nose with my fingers. I wonder briefly if I have years of bruises and discomfort to look forward to. Suddenly I recall how my own brother used to heft my mom in the air and toss her onto plush furniture after he outgrew her. An echo of her helpless laughter rings in my ears, the exact same sound I make when a tangle of children is crushing all the air out of my lungs. Is this what it is to be a boy mom? Maybe wrestling is the little-boy version of hugging, a secret test of the strength and the resilience of my love. As I shove a tissue into my sore nose, I resolve to look for and appreciate the ways he is showing me affection—even the roughhousing. *** “Do you want to take a walk with me?” I ask, plopping down on the couch, where he is sprawled with a novel. He has to shift his body to give me enough room; I am practically sitting on him. “I have 45 minutes before I need to take your birthday pie out of the oven.” I am searching for a way to make his 8th birthday feel special, and there is nothing he likes better than undivided attention. “Sure,” he agrees. He hangs his book over the corner of the coffee table and ambles off in search of shoes. We step out the door into a perfectly warm afternoon. In silence, we make our way down the driveway. As we step into the street, my son looks up at me and extends his hand. I stare at it for the briefest of moments. A light breeze could have knocked me down. He’s going to hold my hand, I realize with amazement. It’s not a hug, but it might even be better: the promise of steady togetherness as we walk, warming us from our fingers through our spines. I cautiously wrap my hand around his and we take off, meandering through our neighborhood. I reach for something to say, anything that will be worthy of the rare gesture he is giving me. “What’s your favorite thing about yourself?” I ask him, my words keeping time with the clap of our flip-flops. He launches into a discussion of his Minecraft skills and dreams, the details of which fly into one ear and out of the other. The only thing that matters is the constant pressure of his hand in mine as we swing our arms between us. Melissa Hogarty is a habitually overwhelmed mama who is learning to slow down and sometimes say no. She lives in Northern Virginia with her husband and three kids, who regularly teach her that she has more to learn in the areas of grace, patience, and letting loose. She can often be found cuddled up with a good novel or pulling cookies out of the oven. Melissa is an editor and regular contributor at Kindred Mom and a member of the Exhale creative community. She enjoys singing with her church worship team and fellowshipping with other moms. She also writes a personal blog, Savored Grace, where you can find recipes as well as ideas about motherhood and faith.

Kimberly Knowle-Zeller shares a story about prayer during ordinary, sacred moments. Now you can find the Kindred Mom book, Strong, Brave, and Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, wherever books are sold. Subscribe to the Kindred Mom newsletter and receive a preview of the book today! Photo by Paul Engel on Unsplash O Lord, open my lips, And my mouth shall proclaim Your praise.  Settled in the darkness, before my alarm goes off, I hear six-year-old Charlotte’s voice declare, “Once upon a time.” I turn my ear toward the door and listen as she continues to talk to everyone and to no one at the same time. I hear her feet pitter patter on the wood floors and books being organized on the bookshelf. With every movement, her voice offers a story. When I reach her room, I peer inside and see her Elsa doll in a small crib next to her stuffed animals. Each of them perched upright, listening intently. “Were you reading to your dolls and stuffed animals?” I ask her. “Yes, this is school and I’m the teacher. See, here’s my book.” She sits down on her bed and proceeds to tell a story. Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit: as it was in the beginning, is now, and will be forever. Amen.  At lunch time, as light snow falls, three-year-old Isaac and I turn on Christmas music and nibble on finger foods. The two of us have found our own rhythm during the school day while Charlotte’s gone. Much of this time revolves around snacks. I’m still eating when Isaac stuffs the remaining grapes in his mouth, “Can I play, please?” “Finish chewing first, and then you can for a few minutes, and then it’s nap time.” I tell him as I say every day after lunch. There’s only a little bit more time before I have a few minutes of quiet. Isaac wipes his mouth with his napkin, jumps down on the floor, gets on his belly and grabs a car. He winds the car through his blocks, “choo choo, coming through.” His body snakes along the floor, his feet sway in circles in the air. I grab the dishes and move them to the kitchen sink. Coming back into the dining room I find Isaac sitting on his knees taking out blocks and putting them on top of one another. “Look, mommy, look.” “I see, and now it’s time to take a nap; let’s go, buddy.” He keeps playing and seems to ignore me until I hear his voice, “I’m not tired. I just want to play with my toys.” I take a deep breath before scooping him up in my arms. My mind pictures the reheated coffee and the book I’d like to crack open, or the google doc with essay ideas I want to flesh out, or just the silence of sitting on the couch. He may not be tired, but I am. I take him to the bathroom and as we’re heading to his room he has yet one more request, “Can we read a book in my room?” I look at the clock. The moments tick away from my quiet time, but I still say yes. “But only a short one.” I say. “Okay!” He runs to his book shelf, “Hmmm, this one?” He shows it to me with a smile. I nod my head and he lifts his arms to me once again. We sit together in the rocking chair, the weight of his body against me, a reminder that soon he may not fit like this. Stay with us, Lord, for it is evening, and the day is almost over. Let Your light scatter the darkness and illuminate your church.  Seated around our dining room table we see the setting sun through the living room window. Shades of pink and purple mingle across the horizon. Both kids bounce up and down on their chairs seated on their knees. Isaac tries to put a spoonful of peas in his mouth. “Wait, it’s time to pray first.” I remind him. “Let’s pray.” Together our four voices join in: Come Lord Jesus, be our guest, let these gifts to us be blessed. Amen. No sooner than we finish the final Amen do the kids have their spoons back in their mouths. For a few minutes we only hear silverware clanking and mouths chewing. Charlotte continues to bounce up and down, never sitting still, until she puts her spoon down and looks me directly in the eyes: “I love you, Mama.” Before I get a chance to respond she puts her arm on Stephen’s shoulder, “I love you, Daddy.” Another quick turn and she’s looking at Isaac, “I love you, Isaac.” I turn to the window to see the last remaining colors fade into the horizon, a small glimmer of light left. Soon the skies will be dark and the stars will shine. Isaac breaks my thoughts with his own chorus of words, “I love you, Charlotte. I love you, Mommy. I love you, Daddy.” We all respond together: “We love you.” Now in peace I will lie down and sleep; You alone, O God, make me secure.  I haven’t reached the door of Charlotte’s bedroom before her voice calls me back, “Stay here.” Standing next to the light switch, I reassure her, “I’m not going anywhere.” “Stay here, Mama.” I flick the switch bringing darkness into the room. “I love you. I’m not going anywhere.” We do this every night. I wonder if she’s picking up on my worries about the world, or perhaps it’s due to her being away for the first time all day at kindergarten. Some nights my patience wanes. Some nights I climb back in bed with her and feel the weight of her body next to mine, our hearts beating together. Every night, back and forth, she wants me to stay, and I assure her I will. Eventually I take my leave. As I walk down the hallway I hear her voice one more time, “Don’t go anywhere.” I keep the monitor close to me and watch for her body to be still, sleep taking over her. It’s not until I watch her sound asleep that I leave the monitor and relax into the quiet of the night. Before finally resting myself there are the dishes to clean, toys to pick up, emails to answer, and lunches to prep. I check the monitor occasionally to make sure she’s still asleep. Later when I’m ready for bed, sitting in my chair with my Bible and journal, I offer my own prayers to God. I give thanks for the day. I vent about the lack of time to get anything really cleaned or picked up. I dream about writing projects I’d like to tackle. I list the names of friends and family holding heavy secrets and pain. I both cry out to God and marvel at God’s presence. I hear Charlotte’s voice from earlier in the night, “Stay here, Mama,” and I realize my prayers are not much different than my daughter’s. My own prayers rise up, “Stay here, God. Be with me. Be with our world.” I listen to the chorus of insects outside my window, I see the moon’s light, and in the stillness, I hear God’s response: I love you. I’m not going anywhere. Let us bless the Lord. Thanks be to God.  *Book of Common Prayer (Church Publishing, 1979) & Evangelical Lutheran Worship (Augsburg Fortress, 2006)   Kimberly Knowle-Zeller is a pastor in the Lutheran church, writer, and mother living in Central Missouri with her husband and two children under 6. Her stories on faith and motherhood have appeared in The Christian Century, Living Lutheran, The Episcopal Cafe, Coffee + Crumbs, and more.

Amy Grass shares a story about love, loss, and navigating storms. Now you can find the Kindred Mom book, Strong, Brave, and Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, wherever books are sold. Subscribe to the Kindred Mom newsletter and receive a preview of the book today! Photo by Anandu Vinod on Unsplash The odds of being struck by lightning are around 1 in 500,000. The odds of being struck by a rare cause of miscarriage were 1 in 1,000. Lightning struck. There was no warning, no siren blaring or weather report telling me to seek shelter. It all looked like blue skies ahead. I don’t know when the electric bolt made contact. But when the thunder hit, the boom of “your baby’s heart is no longer beating” was deafening. “A partial molar pregnancy,” the pathology report read. “Male.” A child I didn’t even know, a boy, suddenly gone. His name: River. We didn’t name him until after he died. Even tropical storms get their names before they hit land. *** It was July and we were on the way home from my niece’s birthday party. At one point during the party, rain splashed against the sliding glass doors, obscuring what was moments before a clear view. A brief break in the storm signaled that I should load the kids up for the 25 minute drive home. My husband Joel was out of town on a camping trip in the Rocky Mountains and I was on my own with our two small children. As we drove down the highway toward the city, lightning repeatedly flashed across the sky. My four year-old Eloise asked, “What if something bad happens?” With my eyes steeled on the St. Louis skyline ahead, I turned the question over in my mind, deciding I wouldn’t try to reassure her everything would be okay. That’s not always the case. Sometimes bad things do happen. Later, I scrolled Facebook and saw four people were struck by lightning in a neighborhood two miles south of our home. I didn’t know what to do with that information. *** Sometimes I look back to photos from the days before we found out River had died, when we didn’t even know a storm was in the forecast. I scroll through the baby bump mirror selfies I snapped to document my growing belly, my face shining with pride. I took more photos in that third pregnancy than I ever remembered to capture with my first two. Now they sit in a Google Photos album along with a shot of the positive pregnancy test I sent my three best friends, the video telling our kids the good news, and the photo from our social media announcement. What can I do with these happy memories now that they’ve been tainted by sadness? There is no insurance policy that covers this kind of storm damage. *** Summer continued, along with the unpredictable Midwest weather. On another night of solo parenting, abrupt thunder boomed loud enough to shake the house. I jumped. Eloise screamed. I clutched her small body to mine and she spoke through exasperated tears, “This day is a DISASTER!” To take her mind off the storm outside, I prompted her to remember the good things about the day along with the bad. Eloise listed the hard things: Daddy wasn’t home, the rain meant we couldn’t go to the park. She followed up with good: a whole evening where she had me and her little brother to herself. Ten minutes later, the sun was out again. *** I recently found a piece I wrote early in my pregnancy with River while participating in a writing challenge. The prompt was grief and I reflected on my fear of it, my worry that something would go wrong. I wrote “it hangs there like a cloud. A cloud, heavy in the sky, ready to shower down on me. Will it burst or are there clear skies ahead?” *** In early August, we were on a family walk through the park by our house. The blue sky turned fast as dark clouds rolled in overhead. Joel and I quickened our pace. The wind began to blow. Hard. Branches crashed to the ground around us. Our kids exploded in terrified sobs as we pulled the stroller shades over their heads. Joel turned to me and asked, “Do you want to run?” We took off as limbs continued to fall in the path before us, running until we found shelter in a cinder block park bathroom. Joel ran home to get the car. Only as he sprinted away did I notice a group of people gathered not far from the bathroom. They stood, leaning on a truck, laughing and talking in the midst of the wind. Farther down the path, another person casually continued a jog. Everyone seemed to carry on as I held my two screaming children in a bathroom, frantically refreshing the weather app on my phone. Didn’t they know a storm was coming? The next morning, I went on a 5:00am run through the same park and I saw something blocking the dark path before me. An enormous oak tree pulled by its roots to the ground in the previous night’s storm. I found an odd comfort in the tangible proof of the wind we so fiercely felt. *** The day after we found out that River had died, while I still carried his lifeless body in mine, Eloise asked if we could make a craft. I pulled construction paper from a drawer and sat on the dining room floor with tape and scissors. “Let’s make a rainbow,” she said. “And a sun. And rain clouds.” So there I sat, in the middle of the most violent storm of my life, cutting strips of bright paper to make a rainbow. We hung them on the ceiling fan in the living room that day. Sun shining right in the middle of the rain. Those construction paper pieces now hang on the wall in the room Eloise shares with her younger brother Oliver. They remind me of the way we sought beauty in the midst of the storm and the God who never left us. *** There was more to that piece I wrote on grief in March. I’ve come back to the last paragraph again and again. Before I knew the end of the story and the fierce storm that lay ahead of me, I did myself a favor and wrote something true: “I push myself to trust the voice that is better than mine. The voice of the True One, who promises to never leave or forsake me. He promises to make me strong and brave, not because I am but He is. He is not a God of the odds or statistics. Grief or no grief, He is true. He is good. I believe. Help my unbelief.” He is true. He is good. I believe. Help my unbelief. *** I don’t know what comes next. All I can do is zip my rain jacket and head out into the wind, trusting the only One whom the wind and the waves obey. I know better now than to try to predict the weather. Amy Grass is a wife and mom in St. Louis, Missouri. She is a writer, runner, and baker, and can often be found adventuring outdoors with her family or sharing a good meal with friends. She’s usually wearing overalls and almost always wants a donut.

Bethany Broderick shares a story about receiving bad news and cherishing time with the people she loves. Now you can find the Kindred Mom book, Strong, Brave, and Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, wherever books are sold. Subscribe to the Kindred Mom newsletter and receive a preview of the book today! Photo by britt gaiser on Unsplash   Why is my mom still in the bathroom? I asked myself as I welcomed family and friends into our tiny apartment for our firstborn’s gender reveal. With more guests than would pass a fire code, I didn’t want my mom to stay in our only bathroom the whole time. Besides, she was there to help me host—to celebrate finding out whether our baby was a “he” or a “she.” Why wasn’t she out here with me, joining me in the excitement of knowing what was growing inside my belly and helping me prepare for the journey ahead? Even though she rejoined the party as we shot pink confetti across our yard, I was hurt by how distant she seemed. Instead of being by my side that night, she stayed hidden away for reasons I didn’t understand. Two weeks later she called me with the test results. The crimson surge that had plagued my mom at the gender reveal party—and for weeks before unbeknownst to me—was an indication of something much worse than a monopolized bathroom. I sat on my couch, seventeen weeks pregnant, shocked by the news that my mom had an advanced stage of endometrial cancer. The loneliness I felt at the party without my mom by my side flooded over me again. What if she isn’t able to be here for me when I become a mother? What if she doesn’t get to be a grandmother? I couldn’t bear the thought of my mom not being there in my new phase of life, and even worse, in my daughter’s life. The next five months of my pregnancy were a whirlwind of anxiety. On top of the typical first-time-mom stress of wondering if I was exercising too much or too little, googling my latest symptom, and religiously keeping track of baby kicks on an app, I also felt the burden of my mom’s cancer treatment. I asked all the questions—How often are the treatments? What are the side effects? Is this the best doctor for you?  There was one question that I never asked, too afraid to hear the answer: What is the prognosis? I googled it once and spent the next few hours sobbing myself to sleep. After that, my husband never allowed me to research online about my mom’s cancer again. *** I have few memories of my grandmother—my mom’s mother—but as my pregnancy and my mom’s cancer progressed, thoughts of her began to lurk in the back of my mind. My memories of her are like blurs that flit through my mind. I never know if it’s a true recollection from my toddler brain or my mind making something up from a photograph I’ve seen or a story I’ve been told. Even so, I vividly remember sitting on my grandmother’s lap next to her record player as she played me her favorite vinyl: Southern Gospel mixed in with one or two children’s records she bought for me. We would sing and dance together for hours in the corner of her dining room. My grandmother was diagnosed with breast cancer when I was only a baby, and while she defeated the cancer the first round, it came back with a vengeance and took her from us when I was four years old. She stayed with us each week so she could be closer to the hospital for treatments, going back home on the weekends. Because both my parents worked full-time, my grandmother became my primary caretaker, even throughout all the exhausting chemotherapy. This went on for months, and I got used to my grandmother always being present. Thinking of her, I prayed for more opportunities for my mom to be present with me and my daughter.   *** I sobbed on the phone, thankful for the covering of a magnolia tree outside my office building, as my mom relayed more bad news about her cancer. More bad news—that seemed like all we ever got from her doctors. It’s always worse than they had anticipated. When I hung up the phone, I knew we had to move back home if at all possible. My husband took a new job, and we moved shortly after my daughter was born, only thirty minutes away from my parents. My mom had been there for my grandmother throughout her cancer battle, and I wanted to be there for my mom. Her final chemo treatment coincided with the week I gave birth to our daughter. I have a picture of my mom and daughter wearing matching bright-yellow crocheted hats that covered their equally bald heads. I could tell my mom was as tired as I was. My body was spent from hours pushing out a new life; hers was spent from months fighting the death inside her own body. While I was thankful for my mother-in-law and other helpers, I wanted my mom. When she visited, I watched my mom’s weak arms hold my daughter tight, wishing her arms were strong enough to hold me, too. I felt guilty asking for her help when I saw exhaustion much deeper than mine in her eyes. So we sat together on the couch—our bodies aching together, unsure of how to help each other when we were both in pain. When dreaming of this day, I had imagined my mom taking care of both me and my daughter. I hadn’t expected I would already bear weight of taking care of her. *** My mom knocked on our glass front door last week after her immunotherapy treatment with a plastic bag hung over her arm. My two-year-old daughter yelled, “Present!”—barely waiting for me to open the door before jumping into her grandmother’s arms and rifling through the bag. It was another coloring book and more crayons. They sat down together at my daughter’s little table, and tears filled my eyes. I’m told that my grandmother brought me little treasures in plastic bags every time she came to visit us. Even though she was worn from the struggle within her own body, she would bring me a Walmart bag with a new toy or activity for us to do. A Barbie doll, stickers, a Barney movie—it never mattered what was in the bag. It was the fact that I got to look out the door week after week and see my grandmother standing there. I don’t remember the day my grandmother stopped bringing gifts in plastic bags. I don’t remember the hard holiday season when we said goodbye to her. I don’t remember what she looked like towards the end. In my mind, she’s always sitting by a record player, holding me in her lap and singing. What will my daughter remember about her grandmother? *** Sometimes it seems history is repeating itself in the cruelest way possible—threatening death as we celebrate new life. I fear the timer has been set, and we will follow the same pattern as my mom did with her mother. I wonder how long my mom will be here with us. I try not to let my mind drift that way, but every once in a while, it manages to get away unnoticed to the realm of what ifs. We praise God that the chemo worked miraculously in my mom’s body, defying the odds I had googled that one terrible night. Every four months, we breathe a sigh of relief when another set of scans comes back “clear.” But I know that may not always be the case. I cherish every milestone my mom is here with us, knowing that one day she won’t get to be here. Like my grandmother, she might not be with us for my daughter’s soccer games or high school graduation. Maybe it won’t be until a wedding or a great-grandchild’s birth. Either way, I know there will never be a moment I don’t want her here with me. *** Today, I open the door again to my mom standing there carrying a Walmart bag. I know she’s in pain from one of her latest treatments, but she doesn’t act like it when my daughter grabs her hand and yells, “Dance with me.” Instead of a vinyl record, my mom picks up a Roku remote to play my daughter’s favorite Spotify playlist. The audio quality may not be as beautiful as my grandmother’s vintage record player, but as I watch my daughter dance around the living room with my mom, I hope that my daughter will carry this memory with her for the rest of her life. I pray she remembers her grandmother there with her, singing at the top of their lungs and twirling around until they couldn’t stand anymore. I watch them from the kitchen knowing I have two choices. I could fearfully save these memories in my heart, dreading the memories they may never make. Or I could treasure each moment—each photo I snap on my phone—with gratitude. Few moments in life are clearly defined by joy and grief; often they are a mixture of the two. We can pretend one or the other doesn’t exist, or we can hold both in our hearts, believing that each emotion enriches the other.  My daughter is only two, but instead of counting down the days until she gets more time with her grandmother than I had with mine, I choose to be present and rejoice in the days my good and loving Creator has given us together. I pull out my phone and start recording a video of my daughter and mom spinning in a flurry of scarves to blaring Disney music. I pray that when my daughter’s toddler memories fail her, these videos will remind her in vivid color how much her grandmother loved her—just like the photo I have of my grandmother holding me in her lap by the record player. Whether we’re given two more years or fifty, I want my daughter to know her grandmother will always be with her—even if it’s only in photographs and memories.   Bethany Broderick lives in Birmingham, Alabama, with her husband, three-year-old daughter, and eight-month-old son. A recovering perfectionist, she writes about resting in the faithful grace of God in the everyday moments of life as a woman, wife, and mother. She is on the blog contributor team at The Joyful Life and has also had articles featured on Risen Motherhood and Deeply Rooted. You can find her writing on her personal blog (dwellingword.com) and on Instagram (@bethanygbroderick).

Theresa Boedeker shares a story about learning to appreciate her body. Now you can find the Kindred Mom book, Strong, Brave, and Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, wherever books are sold. Subscribe to the Kindred Mom newsletter and receive a preview of the book today! Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash I am slouching against my sister’s kitchen counter. Talking, before we tackle making dinner. I am Happy to be in her presence, as we live 3000 miles apart. She is 13 years younger than me, but we both share red hair, an abundance of freckles, and the urge to tell stories to make a point. “Just a week ago I was standing in my kitchen with three of my friends,” she begins, “complaining about summer and swimsuits and how much our bodies have changed since childbirth.” She pats her no longer svelte tummy, running her arm mid air up and down her womanly torso and thighs to illustrate her point. Her willowy teenage body has matured. “We were right here,” she gestures toward the table, “analyzing and complaining about how self-conscious we were as teens about our stomachs—back when we didn’t even have a stomach or know what stretch marks were. Imagine us bemoaning our bodies—our perfect breasts and thighs as teens?” Her animated face breaks into a giggle. “Little did we know that compared to now, we looked like rock stars. We didn’t even appreciate what we had.” Our laughter mingles, and our heads mirror in nodding. We have stepped back into our teenage concerns that seemed so earth rocking back then. “If we had known as a teen or barely twenty-something that our looks and body were changing and fading faster than dandelion seeds in a strong wind,” she adds, “would we have been so loathsome of our bodies? So quick to find fault, compare, pick apart, and expect perfection? We were closer to it then than we would ever be again!” “It’s only in hindsight we realize,” I say. She nods, waving her expressive hands. “That’s when I said to my friends,” she continues, “We need to stop comparing and complaining about our bodies right now, because they sure aren’t getting any younger. Any fitter. We need to appreciate and love them the way they are right now. Because tomorrow they will be one day older. One day more wrinkled. One day more everything.” “So true,” I agree. “That day my friends and I made a pact that we won’t be in my kitchen ten springs from now complaining about how our thirty some bodies were so superior to our now 40 some bodies. There will be no bemoaning the fact that we didn’t appreciate our bodies the way we should have. That back then our bodies had more tone, glow, and elasticity of youth. Because we can’t go back.” I laugh. “Good for you.” “We need to be thankful for our bodies and appreciate them in their—-” she pauses and makes quote marks in the air, ” ‘good-as-they-are’ state. Because each day they get one day closer to check-out.” I smile at her wisdom and look down at my good-as-it-gets body. I am hit by the futility of complaining about our bodies. Moaning never changes their shape or strength; It just changes our opinions and thoughts about them—causing us to dislike and loathe these gifts from our Creator. She looks at me. Gives her benediction. “Enjoy your good-as-it-gets body, Theresa. Because I am enjoying mine.” “l will,” I promise, dancing in place, waving my hips and pointing at my face. We laugh at ourselves. The silly focus we have on beauty and our bodies. And because her words are so wise and piercing. Her story so perceptive. I also laugh from discomfort. From a forgotten memory. Each week we teens gathered in the ladies’ bathroom lounge at church. When we had all arrived, we stood in front of the long mirror and went down the line, complaining about something related to our appearance. At first there were Sundays I made something up. Soon, I didn’t need to. *** Sometimes I look in the mirror and wonder who is looking back at me. I turn sideways and bemoan my baby-stretched stomach. My less than tight chin. My developing wrinkles. I hate to admit it, but I have bought into the many ways magazines and ads tell me I am not good enough. Beautiful enough. Tall enough. Skinny enough. That if I only did these exercises…used this toothpaste…wore this bra…rimmed my eyes with this eyeliner…then all my problems would be solved. Every lie accompanied by a photo-shopped girl few resemble, but everyone should aspire to. Why have I been picking myself apart like that? I wonder suddenly as I look in the mirror. I wouldn’t do this with my children, my friends, my pets. I don’t want to hate aging. Or dislike parts of my body because they don’t fit someone else’s beauty standard. Can I enjoy the gift that my body is and thank the Giver for all the amazing things it does and allows me to accomplish? Can I be thankful and not critical? I stare into the mirror. Remember my sister’s story. “Enjoy your good-as-it-gets body. One day you will be enviously looking back at your current model” I say, starting to laugh and wiggling my hips. Yes, my body is good, does good things, helps me enjoy life. It is a gift I need to appreciate. Remind myself that my future self will be enviously looking back at this current model I occupy.  I remind myself to quit believing the lie that a lack of wrinkles, whiter teeth, a tighter stomach, and less leg hair will improve my life, make it smoother and pain free, or create a perfect me. The truth is this: those who love me don’t judge me based on my appearance. Late last night I was leaving my teenage son’s room wearing my unglamorous pj’s and sporting a full crop of bed hair and he said, “Love you, Mom, and appreciate you.” I am tired of being my biggest critic. I absorb his words. Let them sink deep into my good body. Theresa Boedeker likes to tell stories, write, and laugh. A mother and wife, she works hard at being thankful for and enjoying her good-as-it-gets body. She blogs at TheresaBoedeker.com and is passionate about helping women replace lies with truth, give themselves and others grace, and learn to laugh at themselves and life. She enjoys people, flowers, being creative, reading, and tea with milk and honey.

Kelly Beckley Shank shares a story about overcoming fear and finding confidence in her calling, despite the challenges she encounters. Now you can find the Kindred Mom book, Strong, Brave, and Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, wherever books are sold. Subscribe to the Kindred Mom newsletter and receive a preview of the book today! Photo by Francesco Gallarotti on Unsplash Sixteen years old and I thought the world was mine to rule. Donning my tiara and sash, I walked freely wherever I wanted, doing most anything I liked during the state fair. Watch the horse races from the private dining room while eating crab cakes? Sure. Walk through the back door at the dairy bar and get a milkshake? Absolutely. No one told the Farm Queen there were limits to her dreams yet. Oldest of three girls. Grew up on a farm. Daughter of parents who didn’t tolerate sexism. Their confidence in my abilities remains one of the greatest gifts from my parents. Not a single memory exists of them ever telling me I couldn’t do something just because I was a girl. In fact, when practicing contest questions for the Farm Queen contest the subject of being a girl in agriculture came up. Even now, I can remember my mom helping me craft an answer. Her position was clear, “you were raised in a family where girls are just as capable as boys.” Those words weren’t fodder for a feminist agenda or underlying power struggle. My parents believed each of us was capable of working on the farm. Our tasks were assigned by ability and interest, not gender. College was no match for my confidence and determination. Yet again, I found myself in a place where my gifts were celebrated. The first hint of pushback showed up shortly after starting my first full-time job. Back a long gravel driveway, my boss and I arrived for my first farm visit. Fresh out of college with a squeaky agricultural economics degree and family name to back me up, I jumped out of the car. This was the moment I’d waited for: my dream job was real. Unfortunately, I wasn’t the type of person my client was expecting. I was too young and too female. His words escape me now, but I can still feel the shame from being judged as unqualified. Without giving me a chance, he decided I wasn’t good enough. Our visit continued as my boss chatted with the client about his needs and I silently watched. How could I help a client who wouldn’t speak to me?  Fortunately, I’m hard-headed, and proving him wrong became my mission once the sting wore off. By the time I announced my transfer to another office the following year, that same gentleman had become a frequent visitor to my office. Often, he’d enter with an ear of corn in hand for me to examine and a story to share. I may have won that battle, but my confidence was cracked. My life changed little in the decade that followed. By the time my girls were born, I was back on the farm and working full-time with my dad. Each morning, I would pack a diaper bag, a toy bag, and a lunch box with enough food and supplies to last for the day. Then we’d load up and head to work. Thinking back, it’s quite amazing to think of the confidence my dad still had in me. With two babies in tow (they’re only 15 months apart), he assumed I would keep doing my job. The girls and I would run the grain mill, me unloading trucks or drying grain while they played. We moved equipment and ran errands. On rainy days we paid bills. During the winter, we enjoyed some time off. Proving myself capable at work was one thing. I never imagined I would need to prove myself within the church. But there I was again. No one ever said anything, but the kind of mama I am was different than everyone else. Maybe every mama secretly feels that way, but being myself in church made me uneasy. I can’t remember any other mamas showing up to VBS in a beat-up old farm truck covered in a day’s worth of straw dust and dirt, but we did. It wasn’t just my type of work or the hours I put in. I also wasn’t a crafts and playtime mama. I tried really hard, but I hated it. The pumpkins, glitter, and play dough drove me crazy. If children could play by themselves and be happy, why should I interfere? But my friends were so good at that stuff and seemed to enjoy it. What in the world was wrong with me? There were women’s Bible studies, but I didn’t go. Beth Moore in the 2000s was a model I couldn’t live up to. She was so put-together and perky. I was more grease and occasional profanity when something broke. Her videos oozed a level of wholesome friendliness I could never attain. As a defense, I stayed far, far away from all things women’s ministry. If I wasn’t there, I couldn’t be compared. But God has a way of bringing everything full-circle and He has quite a sense of humor. A decade later sitting across from me at a picnic table, my friend asks me what book I’m going to write. Slightly taken aback, I share my idea as well as my disclaimer that I’m not a Beth Moore of the 2000s kind of woman. She tells me that Beth Moore isn’t a Beth Moore of the 2000s kind of woman anymore either, go look again. Of course, she’s right. I’m petrified by what God is doing in my life. If there is a “right” way to do women’s ministry, it probably won’t be the way I do it. God called me to reach women who feel the way I did when my girls were little. He’s asking me to reach the ones who feel like they don’t fit, the women who love their careers, the ones who detest working in the nursery, the ones who have big questions about faith, and the women who are a little outside the lines. These are my people. Inside, I’m hesitant because being strong and brave can come across as bossy and out-of-line. Every time I publish a blog post or end a live teaching, I wait for pushback. I wait to hear them say I can’t teach because I’m female. In those moments, I fear the words of people more than I hear the affirmations of God. I’m afraid God is calling me to speak and lead in ways that will make people (not least of all, me) uncomfortable. On my own, I’m weak and afraid. I want to be a model of obedience and trust. I will be strong and brave despite feeling weak and afraid. The Farm Queen needed someone who believed in her. Even more importantly, my girls need a mama who is willing to be very uncomfortable doing exactly what God is asking. They need me to be strong and brave by clinging to God. Kelly Beckley Shank understands doubt and fear, but she embraces God’s promises and chooses confidence. As a Purpose & Process Coach, Kelly challenges women to identify their strengths, clarify their purpose, and choose confident leadership. A self-proclaimed farmbody, Kelly enjoys being home with her husband, 3 kids, and their little herd of farm animals. You can find her online at kellybeckleyshank.com or on Instagram and Facebook.

Theresa Boedeker shares a story about her daughter attending a sleepover and learning how to advocate for herself. Now you can find the Kindred Mom book, Strong, Brave, and Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, wherever books are sold. Subscribe to the Kindred Mom newsletter and receive a preview of the book today! Photo by Leslie Yu on Unsplash Overnight birthday parties for my daughter were commonplace when we lived in Seattle, but now that we had moved half-way across the continent, Ashley had not been invited to a sleepover for over a year. Until now. All the seventh-grade girls from her small private school would be attending, she told me on the drive home, bouncing in her seat. Everything seemed in order until Ashley mentioned the movies they were going to watch. One was a scary movie. I knew that this movie would scare Ashley beyond her limits. In a few years, it would be no big deal, but with her current maturity and fear tolerance, she would probably be afraid for a while. One evening at bedtime, I sat down on top of her bright yellow coverlet scattered with large red and pink blooms, and we talked about options.  “I want you to go,” I explained. “I’m so excited you were invited. But I’m worried about you watching this scary movie.” I told her it was not a movie that was wrong to watch, but if she watched it, she would probably be scared to be alone in the house and have trouble at bedtime. She agreed. She did not want to be scared. We brainstormed a few options. I could pick her up before the movie, which was slated to begin at midnight (because what better time is there to scare one’s self than midnight)? But then Ashley would miss out on the morning activities. I could call her friend’s mother and explain that Ashley was not allowed to see the scary movie. But the other girls were excited to watch it, and their parents were okay with it. No need to ruin the party. Ashley finally decided to just go to bed while the girls watched the last movie. That way she wouldn’t be so tired the next day and she wouldn’t get scared. Problem solved. Plan made. I knew this would be a hard choice for Ashley to keep and execute, but I agreed to her plan.  This would be a good learning experience and opportunity. For the last few years, I had been involving her in more decisions that affected her, helping her slowly gain independence. I wanted her to learn that choices come with outcomes and consequences. Choosing clothes, activities to participate in, discussing vacation ideas, planning a party, and letting her be in charge of her homework gave her opportunities to make choices. This was how she was learning—on small decisions that carried small consequences. I hoped in a few years when she needed to make bigger choices, she would know how. Together we practiced answers she could give when and if the other girls questioned her about not watching the movie. I gave her full permission to blame her mother. A few days later I picked Ashley up from the crowd of pajama-clad girls, all sporting adorable bed hair. We hadn’t driven very far down the dusty, half-mile gravel drive when Ashley burst out, “I did it, Mom!” When the scary movie came out, she explained to the girls that she was going to bed because she didn’t want to be scared. She glanced at me sideways. “I also said that my mother told me I could not watch it.” “No problem,” I laughed. “You can always blame your parents and make us the meanies. That way the girls will be mad at me, and not you.” “You’ll never guess what the girls said,” she gushed. “They said I could watch it and you would never know. That they wouldn’t tell on me.” “So, what did you say?” “I told them I would know, even if you didn’t. And if you asked, I would not lie to you.” My heart swelled. She went on to share that a few of the girls had admired her choice and told her so that morning. I squeezed her hand. I was so proud of Ashley. She had stuck to her decision and came away braver, and better able to follow through with her choices, despite peer pressure. She had proved I could trust her.  Now I needed to be braver. Let her make more choices and trust her to do the right thing. I knew I would sometimes have to let her make mistakes, too, and hope she would learn from them and grow. The very idea made me uncomfortable. But being a parent involves being brave. Brave enough to gently and slowly release my grip on her as she heads towards adulthood. One small opportunity at a time. Theresa Boedeker likes to tell stories, write, and laugh, but not necessarily in that order. As a mother of two children (15 years apart), and a wife, bravery is something she works at. She blogs at TheresaBoedeker.com and is passionate about eliminating the stigma that mistakes carry, the lies we believe, and the shame we hold onto. She is currently offering a free resource on her website with ten tips on how to let our children make more decisions and, in the process, make some mistakes. Theresa enjoys people, flowers, laughing, being outside, and doing creative things.

Rachael Groll shares a story about embracing rest, even when it wasn’t what she thought she needed. Now you can find the Kindred Mom book, Strong, Brave, and Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, wherever books are sold. Subscribe to the Kindred Mom newsletter and receive a preview of the book today! Photo by Adam Jones on Unsplash Going away on a retreat by myself was definitely not my idea. In fact, had you offered me a quiet trip away, I likely would have refused. However, part of my seminary assignment for the semester was to take a seclusion retreat to be alone with the Lord. Just Him and I. No people. No agenda. No activities. Just Jesus.  I am ashamed to admit He didn’t feel like enough.  I am constantly surrounded by people. Lots of people. And I like it that way. If I am alone for too long, I feel anxious and restless because it’s my nature to serve and love my people in abundance. So when this assignment was given at the beginning of the semester, I immediately started thinking of excuses for why I wouldn’t be able to complete it. Recent COVID quarantines had already robbed me of so many travel plans, I thought I had the perfect excuse for opting out.  I was surprised my spiritual director didn’t agree. “You can do this. You won’t be around anyone. It’s perfectly safe,” she urged. Ugh. So much for blaming everything on COVID. Once I realized I wouldn’t pass the class if I didn’t complete this retreat, I surrendered to the idea. I half-heartedly mentioned the situation to a friend as a prayer request because I knew my heart wasn’t in the right place. Instead of agreeing with me, this trip was going to be hard, my friend offered me the name of a ministry that hosts missionaries and pastors for spiritual retreats. Along with the referral, she encouraged me to jump in.  I reluctantly sent an email to determine availability and promptly forgot about it. A couple of weeks later, the ministry sent a response with details about a place they had available for me. All I needed to do was confirm my dates. There was no cost. A little surprised, I responded with some tentative dates and a confirmation email came immediately. It was all set. I was going. All I had to do was pack. As I stepped foot onto the plane, I prayed a silent prayer. “Ok, Lord. I’m doing this. Whatever You want.” My attitude resembled that of my teenager when I’ve pulled her away from her busy social life for a family vacation. She didn’t want to be there and didn’t dive headfirst into the fun, but I knew she was capable of leaving her phone and her friends for meaningful time together. I wonder if God sometimes feels like the parent of a teenager when it comes to my attitude, but just like I knew best for my daughter, I know He is the perfect parent and knows what I need before I do.  After a very long day of travel that included airplane mechanical issues, deplaning, delays, GPS issues, and a desperate prayer outside of the airport, I finally made it to the retreat home.  I was exhausted. And hungry. And just coming to the realization that Uber Eats and Door Dash do not deliver to the middle of nowhere, even though I checked before leaving home. As I walked inside, tears sprung to my eyes as I found waiting for me a basket of food, a welcoming note, and words that I desperately needed to hear. “Come away by yourselves to a secluded place and rest awhile.” Mark 6:31 NASB Rest was exactly what I needed.  After making myself a cup of tea and taking a quick shower, I climbed into bed and slept for 12 hours. When I woke up in the morning, I was overwhelmed by what I saw. In the dark and exhausted hours of the night, I had not noticed the beauty of the home I was in. The large windows in my room looked out to a beautiful river running between towering oaks covered in Spanish moss. I love oaks covered in Spanish moss. Love them. And no one knew that––but God did. As I listened to the waves crashing on the sides of the river, watching the moss swaying in the breeze, I felt the Lord say, “I love you.” Tears sprang to my eyes as I realized what I told everyone was really true. He is a good, good father. I didn’t want to move from this place. My comfortable bed, with a beautiful view, overwhelmed by the beauty of what was surrounding me.  Rest. Just rest. The Lord created this space, this time for me to rest in His presence. I wasn’t anxious, or bored, or sad,  but I was tired. Exhausted actually. I am always pouring myself out for others and this was God’s way of taking me gently by the hand and giving me space to just be His.  I stayed in bed all day. I don’t know the last time I stayed in bed all day––too long to remember. I was so thankful for the gift of rest, and for a heavenly Father who knew what I needed. Rachael Groll is a Wife, Mom, Missionary, and Author. She has a heart for pointing others to Christ.  Look for her newest book, She Hears, everywhere books are sold this summer.  She Hears is a Bible Study that takes a look at six women in the life of Jesus, looking at the ways that He tenderly speaks to women.  You can enter to win a copy of the book by going to SheHears.org.

Jacelya Jones shares a story about how healthy personal growth happens little by little. Now you can find the Kindred Mom book, Strong, Brave, and Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, wherever books are sold. Subscribe to the Kindred Mom newsletter and receive a preview of the book today! Photo by Liana Mikah on Unsplash The question for Contrary Mary, “How does your garden grow?” has the same answer as the question, “Does God answer prayer?”—little by little.  It was late at night when my daughter asked me to let her have four friends (two boys and two girls) come over to the house. I was trying to stuff my work and fun into the cracks of the day, and she asked me to curl her hair. I’ve prayed for strength and wisdom to be the kind of parent our kids need, yet continued to see myself falling short. I know that responding to my children’s distress strengthens our bond, but their stories and requests exhaust me.  But earlier that day, I had a conversation with my friend about these struggles. She’s a little way ahead of me on her parenting journey. She told me to go against my hermit instincts, to push through my natural resistance to some of the things my teenager wants from me. She told me to pick up a take-and-bake pizza and snacks when my daughter asks me to let her have her friends over. She told me to say “Yes,” when she asks me to do her hair. She told me to see my chauffeur responsibilities as a blessing—an opportunity to spend priceless time with her in an enclosed space. She told me to keep my bedroom door open late at night so my oldest daughter can pop in to talk. “You’ll be glad you made room for the late-night stories she’ll share,” she said.  So, I put cheese pizzas and a couple bags of Original Lays into my Shipt cart that night and told Sammie to bring me the curling iron. Taking my friend’s advice, I did not let my eyes grow wide in the face of any story she told me as I turned the barrel around the lengths of her hair. *** The growth I see in response to prayer is not in my complete success; it lives in my willingness to learn and communicate better than I did the day before. I am reminded of God’s words in Exodus 23 when He says in verses 27-30: “I will send my terror ahead of you and throw into confusion every nation you encounter. I will make all your enemies turn their backs and run. I will send the hornet ahead of you to drive the Hivites, Canaanites, and Hittites out of your way. But I will not drive them out in a single year, because the land would become desolate and the wild animals too numerous for you. Little by little I will drive them out before you until you have increased enough to take possession of the land.”  When Sammie was three years old, Hubby and I attempted our first garden. We didn’t know about growing zones or the difference between perennials and annuals. We couldn’t recognize flowers by looking at the blooms or by the leaves. Our first big garden bed was full of clay soil and rocks someone had previously used (probably to keep down weeds). We bought trees…and got rid of them because we didn’t know they took years to produce edible fruit. We planted biennials and threw our hands up when they came up one season and then appeared to us to have died. We blamed ourselves…and then celebrated through confusion when the biennials seemed to resurrect themselves after a season of absence. Slowly, we learned to understand what we were reading in catalogs and on plant tags. We started to recognize plants on our own and learned how to make our flowers…then bushes…and, finally, trees prosper: sunlight, water, shade, sand, fertilizer, mulch, compost, wind breaks, to be grown in pots or in the ground… It’s taken years of research, experimentation, creativity, boldness, and failure to begin to scale the mountain of our garden dreams with any semblance of “mastery.” When I have a dream, I want to see it happen now. Nothing is wrong with my urgency—as long as my diligent pushing forward has the enduring fuel of patience and flexibility behind it. *** I’ve asked God for lots of things, and before I grew in my understanding of Him (and myself), truthfully, I often felt like my prayers were just meaningless breath headed to a black hole—a place where things went in, but nothing came out. No answers. No response. No help from God.  I wanted to stop being angry without growing enough to understand and face the source of my rage. I wanted to be a successful writer without having grown in skill or the courage to submit my work and face failure. I wanted to have friends before my ability to trust others with authenticity had grown. I wanted lots of things and asked for them without the maturity to understand what I really need and what’s good for me.  In the same way, I’ve wanted to be a better parent—responsive to each child’s unique needs. It’s taken research and gradually picking up the tools to see growth in our connections. I’ve learned to listen when I’m tired. To say, “I’m tired,” or “I’m in a bad mood, but I care about what you’re saying.” I’ve learned to push Hubby and me out of our comfort zone by looking at the big picture—the seeds planted by deciding that what’s important to the kids is also important to us. Over time, experience gives me tools for my toolbox. Little by little, God uses all of it to prepare me to achieve my dreams and participate in His good plan for my life.  I think He does answer prayer—always. That’s not the same as a genie granting wishes. It’s like our own model of parenting: We listen to our children’s requests and use wisdom to say, “Yes,” “No,” or “You’re not ready for that…yet. Let’s figure out how we can get you physically and mentally prepared.” Healthy growth is little by little so that when His answer comes, I’m ready—even when the answer is as simple as a take-and-bake pizza. Jay Jones is a writer, a mama, and an audio editor. Self-taught in many ways, she is always looking to make connections and find ways to improve her brain, her blog, and her brood (ages 2 to 14 years). Married since 2004 to her husband, Taylor, she’s been tied to her college sweetheart for nearly a quarter-century. Together, they raise their 4 children in the Chicago suburbs, where they enjoy pursuing creativity in the midst of the daily grind. Her blog, Writing all My Life is the place where she can share all the words, projects, and ideas about challenges and connections as she sees them in the role of Mom and in her identity as a child of God. You can read some of Jay’s poetry and travel cover-to-cover with her through the Bible with her IGTV series on Instagram @jacelya_jones. You can also journey along with her during her Treadmill Talks on YouTube.

Rebecca Wood shares a story about having a difficult conversation with a friend and growing stronger through it. Now you can find the Kindred Mom book, Strong, Brave, and Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, wherever books are sold. Subscribe to the Kindred Mom newsletter and receive a preview of the book today! Photo by Micheile Henderson on Unsplash I sat at a table in our local coffee shop cradling a steamy mug. Within minutes, a friend plopped down on the chair directly in front of me. “Hi there,” I said with a smile. “Good to see you.” “Morning,” my friend replied in a more somber tone and with a downcast expression. “What’s new?” I asked before handing her a mug. “We need to talk,” she began and then unleashed the floodgates of her heart. She shared how my recent careless words wounded her spirit. As she spoke, I felt my body tense and my stomach muscles clench. As one who goes to great lengths to avoid conflict and maintain tranquility, I wanted to run from the conversation. Or maybe place my fingers in my ears and sing “la la la” until all hard words were spoken. Or perhaps be teleported to virtually anywhere else in the world. Situations like this have always been hard for me. I can easily crumble at the hint of discord. I can be swept away by my feelings as they fluctuate between despair and unease. In those awkward moments, I am keenly aware of the feeble foundation on which I rest my emotions and inner peace. However, this time was different. Slowly my muscles relaxed, and a sense of calm washed into my core. “Tell me more,” I replied while leaning in closer. As my friend’s words tumbled from her mouth, I maintained eye contact. I listened to her words while trying to retain a posture of humility and attentiveness. After an affectionate and fruitful dialogue, we ended the conversation harmoniously. More importantly, we parted ways as even stronger friends. I left our discussion bewildered by my reaction. The inner strength I displayed came seemingly out of nowhere. While I’ve handled discord in the past, I’ve never handled it well. In this exchange, I felt strangely equipped to handle a difficult situation and surprisingly armed with an unshakeable peace. I questioned from where this fortitude arose. What changes did I make as of late that contributed to such a better response? I had a good idea. In fact, I had made a daily lifestyle change that was discernibly yielding big results. For the last year, I’ve awakened early each day. I meander into our darkened kitchen, flip on the lights, and nestle into our kitchen table with my Bible.  Through daily assigned scripture readings from a 12-month reading plan I stumbled upon months ago, I have wound my way through the Bible in its entirety from Genesis to Revelation.  Some days, familiar passages remind me of my childhood Sunday school lessons. Other days, I plunge into relatively unknown scriptures that outline ancient laws, lineages, and customs. I have gained more knowledge while simultaneously wrestling with more questions. I haven’t transformed into a Bible scholar. I can’t remember crucial facts, names, or timelines. However, I have developed a greater understanding of the character of God. Through the pages of the Bible, I witnessed God’s continued faithfulness to His people and His promises. I learned about God’s plans for our lives—plans to prosper and succeed—and how they are best accomplished through His teachings. Over and over again, I observed God’s many attributes, namely His sovereignty, His mercy, His kindness, and His righteousness. As I stored up God’s Word in my heart, I witnessed the outpouring into my life. I handed God my anxieties, fears, and desire for control. In return, He lavished me with the fruits of His spirit: greater patience, more joy, and better self-control. I tore down the foundation of my former life and rebuilt it on God’s promises. Throughout this last year, I have discovered that tethering my heart and mind to God’s word has provided the stability I needed to weather the greatest storms, and even to engage in a hard conversation I might otherwise have run from. Months after our difficult conversation, my friend and I returned to the same coffee shop. This time, our discussion flowed smoothly. We chatted about anything and everything. We dove into lighter topics and deeper talk from our shared memories to coffee preferences.  I’m grateful that God protected our relationship and gave me the strength to truly listen to my friend and patch things back together. Rebecca Wood lives in Zionsville, Indiana with her husband Chris, and four boys. She’s a freelance writer whose work has appeared in numerous blogs and publications including Chicken Soup for the Soul, Runner’s World online, Her View From Home, and (in)courage. You can connect with Rebecca at RebeccaWoodWrites.com or find her on Instagram.

Dana P. Brady shares a story about walking through unexpected medical challenges during a pregnancy, and how she got through it. Now you can find the Kindred Mom book, Strong, Brave, and Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, wherever books are sold. Subscribe to the Kindred Mom newsletter and receive a preview of the book today! Photo by Olesia Misty on Unsplash January 20th dawned bright and cold. It was 2015. I lumbered out of bed, 42 years old and 30 weeks pregnant with our third son, Fletcher. I was looking forward to the day because I had an ultrasound appointment with the maternal-fetal specialists who were tracking my pregnancy due to my “Advanced Maternal Age.” It was to be my last appointment with them. If everything looked good, they would release me to the care of my regular obstetrician for the remainder of my pregnancy. My husband, Jake, unexpectedly decided to come with me. It would prove to be a very good thing that he did.  At the clinic, the sonographer recorded images of Fletcher as she’d done several times before. During the ultrasound, she became oddly quiet. Sensing a problem, I asked what the baby’s heart rate was. She remained quiet but finally said aloud, “248”. At that stage of pregnancy, the heartbeat should be no higher than 160. The sonographer stepped out to get the doctor. They both returned and Dr. Schwarz began to click quickly through all the pictures the sonographer had already captured. He pushed back from the monitor, took his glasses off, and rubbed his hand over his face with a sigh. He looked directly at us and began to explain. “Okay, what we have is a supraventricular tachycardia or SVT. Your baby’s heart is beating so fast that it’s actually not pumping blood effectively. That has caused fluid to start accumulating around several of his organs.” He paused and then said, “It’s like your baby doesn’t want to make it.” He told us to go directly to the hospital and he would call ahead to alert them of our impending arrival. Though it was every bit of two and a half hours away, Sacred Heart was the closest hospital with a Level III NICU and also the facility where our doctor had privileges. He sent us directly in our own car, not wanting us to wait any amount of time for an ambulance. Jake and I walked out of the clinic, holding hands and exchanging a wordless glance. In that moment, I began to understand on some level that even though I was scared, God was watching over me. If Jake had not decided to come with me to that appointment, I would not have been able to drive that far by myself.  When we arrived at the hospital, doctors worked to figure out which drugs could be given in order to bring down Fletcher’s heart rate. The process of sorting this out required some trial and error, and I spent sixteen days in the Perinatal Care Unit as they dialed in the drugs and dosages. Finally landing on the right combination, I was discharged and sent home where I would be on daily meds and bed rest. Dr. Schwarz later told me I was on a “truckload” of powerful medication at doses higher than any regular cardiac patient would ever be, since the concoction had to cross the placenta to get to the baby. In fact, at discharge, Jake went to the hospital pharmacy to fill my meds and the pharmacist questioned the prescription because he’d never seen those medicines prescribed at such high dosages. I spent the last eight weeks of pregnancy continuing the daily meds and visiting my regular obstetrician twice a week, both myself and Fletcher being monitored at each visit.  I was admitted to the hospital two more times for overnight monitoring and adjustment of the medications. The medications were truly life-saving for Fletcher, but they were not without cost to me. I was constantly dizzy and nauseous for the remainder of my pregnancy. And all of this medical trauma was complicated and made even more worrisome due to an extremely stressful work situation in which I ended up being relieved of my duties. The departure from my job was not completely unexpected, but the injustice of it all was totally unforeseen. Throughout those few months, I navigated sickness, anger, and the pain of deep wounds due to all that was happening in our lives. Often all three at the same time.  Seeing the stress and trauma of it all, church friends and neighbors went into overdrive in order to care for us. We were inundated with meals, cards, phone calls, and heaps of love and care. We received prayers and messages expressing how much our community appreciated us. Our two older boys were always taken care of as well, from school pickup to ball practice to quick meals at McDonald’s. The respite those good people offered us from every other negative and scary thing that was happening in our lives cannot be overstated. They loved us and considered us as their own family. The consistent love and care felt like constantly having the arm of a good friend around our shoulders.  Fletcher was delivered at 7:30 am on the morning of March 31, 2015. He entered the world with a perfectly beating heart due to the residual amount of medication in his system. His oxygen was low, however, so after about an hour of kangaroo care, he was taken to the NICU, where he would stay for just over two weeks, while his doctors repeated the process of finding the right combination and dosage of meds to give directly to him. We brought him home in mid-April and began the process of giving him his meds around the clock. He (mostly) took them like a champ. When I look back on those months and remember different moments from my hospital stay or the long hours spent by Fletcher’s crib in the NICU, I am overwhelmed by the prayers offered on our behalf by the people of God and the way our community held us and carried us through such a difficult time. Those good people of God showed me, in new and glorious ways, how the heart of God beats with our own hearts. Fletcher is five years old now. He had a life-saving procedure just a month shy of his two-year-old birthday. He is a work of art to me. He genuinely enjoys life. He is pure energy and excitement. His smile breaks me wide open. He used to ask me where he came from, and without hesitation, I would always immediately answer, “Straight from the heart of God.” Dana P. Brady is a pastor, a wife, a mom, and a budding author. She co-pastors with her husband, Jake, and together they are raising three boys. She enjoys reading novels, exercising, and studying the Enneagram. Dana feels she is in her sweet spot when ministering to moms with young children who are “in the trenches”. You can find her on Facebook, Instagram, and at her blog laundryontheline.net.

Kristin Cash shares a story about finding courage after loss. Now you can find the Kindred Mom book, Strong, Brave, and Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, wherever books are sold. Subscribe to the Kindred Mom newsletter and receive a preview of the book today! Photo by Vadim L on Unsplash It had been four long, lonely, heartbreaking months since Christmas Eve when I heard the words, “He’s gone. No heartbeat.” They resounded in my mind every morning like an alarm clock. With four living children at home, there wasn’t time to focus on grieving.  Instead, I found myself drifting while the world went on without me. At some point, whether prompted by another thoughtless comment about moving on, or my desire to celebrate my four living children—I doubt I’ll ever remember clearly—I made a choice. No amount of weeping and walking around dejectedly would bring him back. I knew I had to let him go. The only way for me to let go of part of my heart is to write, so I wrote him a letter. Dear Abraham,  I miss you even though I didn’t get to hold your tiny fingers. I’m gonna try to live without the grief and let Jesus be the Helper of my soul. Brighter days must come for me, because that’s what you would want for me, and you’re living among The Light of the World. If you could, send down some extra cheer for me. Help me let go of the guilt of moving on; the heartache is too deep to carry any longer. I love you and I’m so thankful you didn’t have to carry the earthly burden of your condition. Where you are, there is no pain, no trisomy, no disorder. You are whole and full of life. I’ll always be your Mama. One day, I’ll see you face to face. Until then, help me live a little brighter and be a good Mama to your siblings here. Give your sister up there a huge hug from me and run to your heart’s content.  Love always, Mama.  I drew a heart below my name and closed the cover of the journal I’d kept for him. Later that week, we boarded a plane to meet family for a holiday away. I should’ve been carrying my ready-to-be-born son, but all I had was my broken heart and several suitcases. I was an Alaskan mama traveling to the beaches of the Gulf Coast, but I was anything but excited. For almost two weeks I played in the sand, took a million pictures, even laughed a couple times. But the day before Mother’s Day, I couldn’t. I sat holding my empty belly, pregnant with grief. And while I sat, I slowly drank a glass of wine, staring at the beach from my veranda. It felt anything but blissful. Mother’s Day was a mixture of walking away from my familiar grief, embracing the unknown, and holding hands with grace. I woke up with this unshakable, nagging feeling. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, and it distracted me from every splash my toddler made in the pool and every drop of sunshine on my face. Lunchtime found me doing the mommy potty dance, trying to hustle and get food to four ravenous, sand-covered kids without bursting. I dropped the last paper plate on the picnic table and ran hastily to the bathroom. And then I knew exactly what had been nagging me all day long. Honestly, I didn’t even want to consider it. I was barely letting go of burying my grief with Abraham. How can I walk into another pregnancy right now? I quickly shuffled through my makeup bag to find the lone pregnancy test. After multiple losses, I have learned to carry one with me wherever I go. Two minutes later I was staring at a positive test, which stared back at me from the floor in front of the toilet. My hands were shaking. I was completely shocked. I tried to spend the last two days of our vacation focused on making memories and pouring love into my family. Although I told my husband the news, I did my best not to think about it until we got home, knowing that I might spiral into a fearful place. The next weeks were filled with countless OB appointments, blood draws, ultrasounds, follow-ups, and appointments with specialists. My needy kiddos couldn’t help feeding off my anxiety and fear over the unknown. But we survived. Together, bravely, and again, we found ourselves pregnant with hope. It became evident at 33 weeks that this baby would need to come early. I didn’t want to dwell on what might go wrong, I just wanted to hear her cry, smell her head, and rub my lips on her forehead. I needed to rest in that without worrying about the whys and hows that would follow. I made a million freezer meals, decorated for Christmas, wrapped all the presents, and prayed like my life depended on it—because I knew hers did. Harmony was born at 35.5 weeks. That morning I was prepping for my high-risk Cesarean, surrounded by a team of 20 people, bright lights, cold hands, and the same familiar, nagging feeling I couldn’t quite name. It wasn’t until I was lying down on the bed, watching the first incisions on the camera, that I realized I was delivering her exactly one year to the day after Abraham’s heart stopped beating. I wept and wept, all the tears I’d held in for 9 months, pregnant with hope. And as Harmony cried her first cry, grief and grace collided, and I couldn’t help but be in complete awe at the God who redeems it all. Kristin Cash is a mama to 5 (soon to be 6!) kids who share her table, and 2 Heavenly babies. She and her hubby, Jimi, live in Alaska with their hooligans and way too many animals. Her favorite home away from home is Hilton Head, SC. She loves to bake sourdough boule and drink hot coffee—while it’s still hot. She is the founder of Tapestry of Grace Writers Guild and author of Tapestry of Grace: A Manifesto for Women. You can find her online at www.krisccash.com.    

Stacy Bronec shares a story about finding contentment in her ordinary life. Now you can find the Kindred Mom book, Strong, Brave, and Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, wherever books are sold. Subscribe to the Kindred Mom newsletter and receive a preview of the book today! Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash I unload the last box from my car and close the door to the apartment behind me. Turning back, I remember to lock the deadbolt, then collapse on the floor between the boxes.  My mom walks into the living room, “Well, it’s all in! Do you want to start unpacking now or eat dinner first?”  “Let’s order something in. My first take-out in the city!” I start to search on my phone for Thai take-out, excited to have so many choices right at my fingertips.  “How are you feeling?” she asks, placing her purse on the kitchen counter. “The apartment is really nice.” She looks around approvingly. “Lots of good light.”  “I’m thankful to not be in a basement apartment anymore.” I laugh, remembering the sound of the dogs running above me in my last apartment. “I can’t believe I’m here—that I actually moved. It still feels a bit unreal.”  She nods, “I can’t believe you’re going to be so far from home. But I’m proud of you. I haven’t been to Seattle since I was a kid. What day does your job start, again?” “Orientation for the new employees is Tuesday. I’ll get to meet some of the other counselors then too. So I have a few days to unpack and maybe explore the neighborhood a bit,” I reply.  “That’s good you have a few days to settle in first,” she says.  “I hate unpacking,” I sigh. “Thanks for coming with me to help. Maybe one of these times it will be a last move,” I say, laughing. The food arrives and we sit in silence until the rain begins to fall—the sound filling the room. The temperature seems to drop suddenly, and I begin to shiver. Looking around at the boxes, I rummage through them until I find a sweatshirt and quickly pull it over my head. *** “Mommy!” I’m jolted from my sleep—rain pounding on the window. My heart races as I lie there, unsure of where I am. Slowly I sit up, seeing light coming through the crack in the doorway. My hand reaches to the right, fumbling for my glasses on the nightstand. The cries are coming from my daughter’s room down the hall. Walking into her room, I shake my head, thinking how vivid the dream was—even though I never made that move to Seattle. “It’s okay, Allie. Did you have a bad dream?” I whisper, sliding into bed next to her. I start tracing circles and hearts on her back with my fingers. Within seconds, her eyes begin to flutter shut, and her breathing becomes steady. Slowly I pull my hand from her back and walk out of the room. I gently close the door behind me and tiptoe down the hall.  Our farmhouse is hundreds of miles from Washington—and my life feels a million miles away from that dream. The next morning drags on, the time marked by snack requests, laundry, and attempts to get Allie to pee on the froggy potty. When she and her big brother are playing together, I sneak to my office to take a few minutes to myself.  Moments later, I hear, “Mommy, open this?” Allie walks toward me, holding out a package of fruit snacks. I sigh and turn my chair away from my open laptop. “We just had a snack,” I grumble, reaching out to take the package from her hand.  “Tank you,” she says and grabs the fruit snacks from me. She walks away, and my eyes land on my graduate degree on the wall. I’m really putting that to good use. My shoulders slump, thinking it was a waste of time and money. Looking out the window, I see the leaves are beginning to change, a sure sign of fall. I close my eyes, thinking back to the dream I had last night—it was autumn when I was searching for jobs in Seattle.  *** It was a Friday night, and I was in my basement apartment Googling “school counselor jobs in Seattle.” It wasn’t that I didn’t like my current job, but I felt a pull to the city. I hadn’t been there, but I had decided it was where I wanted to live. Maybe I had watched a few too many “Grey’s Anatomy” episodes, or maybe my life just needed a big shake-up. I love dreary rainy days and find comfort in gray skies, and Seattle seemed like the perfect fit.  My mind wandered, picturing myself living in a high-rise apartment, making my daily commute to work. I saw myself going to happy hour with friends and getting dressed up for fancy events. I imagined being able to leave my apartment and walk down the street with endless food and shopping in sight. While I was scrolling my computer, a text popped up on my phone from a friend. “Hey, I have an extra ticket to this weekend’s football game. Do you want it?” It was the biggest game of the year—the state’s rivalry college football game. Knowing tickets were hard to come by, without hesitation, I typed out, “Yes! Thank you!” I put my computer away, with plans to continue my job search later. The weekend of the game I went to a friend’s house to meet up; a group of us were riding together for the three-hour drive to the stadium. A guy from out of town was going to join us for the road trip—he was someone I knew of but had never talked to. We were both several years past college with careers, but this team was our common denominator. I assumed we didn’t have much else in common. He was wearing a baseball cap, t-shirt, and cowboy boots—boots I could tell weren’t just for show. Throughout the day, I noticed he was flirting with me, but I wasn’t sure how I felt about him yet. *** The sound of a tractor outside brings me back to my farmhouse. I look back at my diploma, wondering where that girl is now. Would she have found new friends in the city, going to fancy parties, having cocktails in heels? Would she be married now or still single? Would she have kids who were growing up using city transportation instead of riding in tractors? The kids hear the tractor, too, and drop their toys to run toward the door to meet their dad. I watch out the window, seeing him step down the ladder in his different, but same well-worn boots and t-shirt. I think back to that football weekend—he says it was love at first sight, but it took me a bit longer. Marrying a farmer wasn’t what I had planned, but quickly my plans to move to Seattle were happily forgotten.  “It’s your favorite kind of weather,” he says with a grin when he walks into the house. “Dark and cloudy.” I smile. “You know me pretty well, huh?”  I do still love gray dreary days. But now when I see rain on the horizon, I love it for a different reason—I know it means my husband will be home, unable to farm. We all walk down the hall of our ranch-style house—a far cry from a city apartment. I peel my eyes from the chaos of toy tractors and trucks and watch the kids cling to each of his legs, asking him question after question. They barely pause to take a breath while telling him about their day. He kneels down beside them, listening. I leave them and walk back to my office. Pausing in front of my diploma, I run my fingers along the edge of the frame, trying to remember why I wanted to be a school counselor. A few minutes later my husband joins me, placing a hand on my back.  “How was your day?” he asks.  “Honestly? I spent most of today feeling sorry for myself. The kids are so demanding, and it feels like I never get anything done. Other than laundry. I dreamed last night about Seattle, which was weird. I have no idea what sparked that memory,” I say. “Oh. Well, what can I do to help?” he asks. “Can I take the kids with me for a couple of hours?” I shrug my shoulders, “I was just trying to remember why I wanted to be a school counselor.” I pause. “Then I started wondering if getting my degree was a waste,” I say, nodding toward the diploma on the wall. “But, I can’t decide if I really miss my career that much, or just the idea of who I thought I would be.” “Well, we would all be lost without you,” he replies. I nod my head and let out a deep breath. Looking out the window, I see the puddles growing on the driveway. The sky is dark and gray—it looks like it’s going to storm for awhile.  He hugs me and I lean into his embrace. We stand silent for a moment until he takes my hand and we walk back to the living room and the kids. Today, I’m going to enjoy my favorite weather with my favorite people.  And that’s where I want to be. Stacy Bronec is a wife, mom of three, a lover of baked goods, and a writer. She and her husband farm and ranch in the middle of nowhere Montana, where she ‘accidentally’ became a farmer’s wife. She has been published at Kindred Mom, Coffee + Crumbs, Her View From Home, and Motherly. You can also find her at stacybronec.com and Instagram, where she shares some of their farm story.

Janet Ruth shares a story about how even closed doors and disappointments can grow valuable character qualities in our children. Now you can find the Kindred Mom book, Strong, Brave, and Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, wherever books are sold. Subscribe to the Kindred Mom newsletter and receive a preview of the book today! Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash\r\n\n\r\n\nWhen my daughter was in preschool, she loved to go outside with her class and play on the playground. One day, when it was time to go inside, Katie sat on a bench and took off her shoe to remove some sand. When she looked up, she saw the teacher just closing the door as the last of the children (except her) walked through. Katie sprang up and ran to the door, crying aloud for the teacher to wait for her, but it was too late. The door was closed when she got to it, and she was too small to open it alone.\r\n\nI got a phone call that day. Although Katie was left alone for only a few minutes, she cried until the preschool called me and I came to get her. I tried to convince her she had been brave. Something bad had happened, but she kept trying to fix it until the problem was solved. She had waited at the glass door, knocking and yelling until someone heard her and opened the door. I said I was proud of her, but it didn’t make a difference. Not then. She kept crying, and I thought my heart would break.\r\n\n***\r\n\nA dozen years later, Katie joined my mother and me on a two-week vacation to Europe. We used public transportation where it was available, including underground railways. In Paris, we were on our way to visit the Notre Dame Cathedral and needed to go two stops on the Metro. The station was crowded, and Katie was a few steps ahead of us crossing the platform. She stepped onto the train… and the door closed. She was inside, her mom and grandma were outside. Katie had no money with her, no phone, and no way to contact us. I yelled through the glass door, “Two stops! Île de Cité! Two Stops!” Then the train pulled away, and my mom and I waited frantically for the next one.\r\n\nIn our panic, we got off after one stop instead of two and had to wait for another train to get to the right stop. Katie, also panicking, got off at the third stop. Realizing she had gone one too far, she had to figure out how to get back. It involved leaving the station, finding a different entrance, and tearfully begging the attendant at the gate to let her through without a token. She convinced the man, and he let her in. She got the next train back to Îsle de Cité, ending up on the opposite side of the tracks from my mom and me, where we were desperate to figure out where she had gone and how we were going to find her.\r\n\n***\r\n\nA year after graduating college, Katie headed off to Europe again, this time without me. I hugged her tight before she left for the airport to fly to London to see a friend. It was hard for me to close the door behind her, but I knew I could trust her to the Lord’s keeping. It also helped to remember that Katie had faced difficulties in the past and had become stronger and braver because of them. I hadn’t protected her from every scary situation in her life—and that was a good thing!\r\n\nThe Apostle Paul tells us we can “glory in our sufferings because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance [produces] character; and character [produces] hope” (Romans 5:3-4, NIV). Children need good character and they need hope. Those both come from facing difficulties head-on, trying and failing and trying again, working through problems instead of having everything worked out for them. It can be hard to watch them be frustrated or scared or going off on adventures alone, but we can trust God to work through those times to mold them into mature adults—men and women of faith, character, and hope.\r\n\nA closed door can be more than a closed door if we use it to teach our children about perseverance, faith, and hope.\r\n\n\r\n\nWife, mother, writer, speaker, Janet Ruth is passionate about encouraging Christians to truly live what they say they believe. She is the author of two Christian Living books, with a third due out this year. Her books help Christians internalize their beliefs so they influence their thoughts and actions every day. Learn more about Ruth and her books at JaneTruth.com.\r\n\n\r\n\n

Jacey Rogel shares about asking God for relief from difficult circumstances and depression. Now you can find the Kindred Mom book, Strong, Brave, and Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, wherever books are sold. Subscribe to the Kindred Mom newsletter and receive a preview of the book today! Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash\r\n\n\r\n\nMy family moved into my dream apartment five years ago; I was grateful for the circumstances that allowed us to move in, for the close proximity to family and friends, and the chance to immerse ourselves in the community I longed to live in. \r\n\nNestled between houses, the brand new apartment community beckoned me as I drove back to college. Parks where movies play every Friday night during the summer, a corner store, a recreation center, and a yoga studio. I was enamored by the old world charm, the yellow, maroon, and dark blue houses with white trim and big porches, the matching apartments. I’m going to live there someday. \r\n\nIt was bliss. At first. \r\n\nI walked into the living room to play with my then 18-month-old son. I glanced down at the floor and thought my eyes were betraying me. Upon closer look, I saw it. Them. Large black and brown spiders crawling on the beige carpet, hiding in plain sight. My eyes moved to see them crawling up the walls. Tears pricked my eyes, my heart beat wildly. I whisked my son away and called for my husband. He killed the predators and assured me everything would be okay.\r\n\nIt wasn’t. For over a month, we lived with these eight-legged creatures. They set up home in our shower, crawled out of our bedroom vents, and were found dead in our son’s toy box. Every night, I rubbed my hand along our beds, shaking out pillows and blankets. Every morning, I checked our clothes and shoes, the shower, and any other surface they could be lurking. I could never fully relax; I didn’t want to be caught off guard.\r\n\nI was thrust into surprise immersion therapy. Spiders have always been my greatest phobia;  living amongst them only made my fear worse. \r\n\nWe found at least five a day in every crevice of our small apartment, not including the dozens found dead in traps or the ones who escaped our careful eyes. I needed to calm myself, so I researched to ensure they weren’t poisonous; I never made it past the first few websites. My camera roll became a dumping ground of proof for the apartment staff, pictures of my son interspersed with my worst nightmare. \r\n\nI prayed constantly for them to disappear, thinking that would be easier than easing my fear. I was new to my faith and didn’t know what I was doing. It seemed easier to pray for signs than anything else. I needed proof He was real, that He would break through and save me. \r\n\nOur life on the outside was everything I hoped it would be: movie nights at the park, my son on his Radio Flyer tricycle, my husband pushing him while I followed behind, trips to the corner store for ice cream, the patch of concrete outside our apartment where we played catch every morning. \r\n\nWe didn’t spend much time inside our apartment. We would pack up and go to my parent’s house and spend the rest of the day there until my husband came home; he would kill spiders while I hid my face in my son’s curly hair.  The very sight of them sent a visceral reaction through my entire body; I couldn’t control it.\r\n\nMy kitchen table became my war-room. Notebooks and Bibles and Christian non-fiction covered the surface and made me believe my prayers would be heard. I hoped those women could teach me how to believe, that their faith would rub off on me. I didn’t know what else to do. \r\n\nThe exterminators weren’t having any luck ridding our apartment, the only apartment with this infestation. My eyes were constantly down, looking for big brown spots near the floorboard. I needed to move my eyes upwards, to believe God would show up and fix this, or at least ease my phobia so we could live in peace. I knew I couldn’t come through this on my own.\r\n\nWeeks felt like years. The stress was too much and I was tired of waiting for God to move.\r\n\nWe broke our lease. \r\n\n***\r\n\n“What is this?” I ask my six-year-old son. I pull out a piece of paper from his homework folder and he reads me a note he wrote asking for a baby brother.\r\n\n“Please, can I have a baby brother?” He begs. “Please?”\r\n\n“No,” I say with a slight laugh. “I’m sorry, buddy.” I hold his head in my hands, he leans into my stomach, soft after three children. He’s been asking for a baby brother ever since his second sister was born a year ago. I always give him the same answer: “It isn’t that easy.”\r\n\n“Can’t you ask God?” he says, desperation in his little-boy voice. “I really want a baby brother. Please? Please ask God?”\r\n\n“I can’t ask God, babe,” I tell him. “We aren’t having any more babies.” End of discussion.\r\n\nI want to tell my son all of the reasons why his dream of having a baby brother to play sports and share a room with will never happen. It is a heavier burden than a six-year-old should have to carry, and I don’t want to dump my mental health concerns onto his young mind. I want him to know he is not the only one who feels like a dream has been ripped away. I do too.\r\n\nEven if a baby brother isn’t possible, he needs to believe God will provide friends and teammates to fill the void. I ache for him to believe God will show up for him, even if I don’t fully believe it for myself.\r\n\nThere was a time my husband and I planned for four or five children, to mirror the families we grew up in. After the birth of our third baby, I made the executive decision to be done. I couldn’t go through another bout of depression as I did after each of my daughters were born; it had already stolen four years of my life.\r\n\nDuring the worst of my depression, after my second child was born, I talked to God constantly, begging Him to heal me. My relationships, my marriage, my desire to be a mother slipped through my fingers like sand. I was sinking and needed something or Someone to pull me out of the dark abyss. But I was alone.\r\n\n***\r\n\nWe settled into our brand-new house two years after the spider-infested apartment. On the way to the bathroom, I stop and stare at something brown on the half-wall that comes down above the stairs. My husband catches me in full panic mode, a shoe in hand. \r\n\n“You have to find it. Make sure it’s dead.” I swallow a lump.\r\n\nHe laughs. “After living in that apartment, you shouldn’t be scared anymore.”\r\n\nBut I am.\r\n\nMotherhood feels the same way. Even though I have three children, I shouldn’t be afraid of adding one more.\r\n\nBut I am.\r\n\nAfter the spider apartment, I stopped reading my Bible. I found it easier to read about other people’s faith, to see the goodness God provided in their lives than to believe He would do the same for me. Reading other women’s journeys was a comfort, but one I held at arm’s length; I wanted to believe God was good. There are moments I still doubt it and I know my little faith isn’t enough to get me through another pregnancy or postpartum period. It isn’t enough for me to believe the dreams I discarded years ago will ever come to fruition.\r\n\nI believe the depression, though slowly loosening its grip on me, will always be lurking where I can’t see it–hiding in plain sight. Every night I wonder if I will wake up in the morning normal. I want to believe it’s safe to keep my eyes up, but they are trained to look down, to stay open, waiting for the nightmare to begin again.\r\n\n\r\n\nJacey is a wife to her husband of eight years and a new homeschooling mama of three. She finds solace in words and between the pages of a good book. Her writing has been featured on Literary Mama and Coffee + Crumbs, among others. You can find her on Instagram or her blog, JaceyWrites.com.\r\n\n\r\n\n