All good storytelling must come with a good beginning. It’s the hook, the grabber, the attention-getter that really gives us the stamina to stay in the story. It’s true when you read them; I think it is even truer when you live them.

*****

This story didn’t start six months ago, when we knew our sweet boy should be saying more, babbling more, mimicking more. It didn’t start on Christmas, when his zone out episodes were so pronounced they prompted a doctor appointment and an EEG as soon as possible. And the story didn’t start last week, when five ladies with clipboards watched his every move, noting where he failed and where he succeeded; when they asked me to fill out paperwork quantifying everything he does into never, sometimes, always categories. And the story didn’t even start when they told me there were “significant deficiencies present,” that a lot of therapy would begin immediately, but also that, “we don’t want to overwhelm you, so we won’t say more, for now.”

This story starts with our perfect God. Immeasurable. Incalculable. Incomprehensible. Every story starts with Him. And He is writing each one with the aim of pointing to his glory. Every single one. Even the ones I probably would have written differently; even my little boy’s story.

That doesn’t mean this is easy. In fact, watching my child struggle, hearing what people think, learning a new language and what it all means for our family, and fighting back the urge to explain to everyone who is around that my quiet two-year old is the sweetest two year old on the planet! is actually the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

I want to grab the ladies with the clipboards and tell them all the things he is so, so good at; how swings and slides and Dora make him the happiest boy on earth. I want to tell them that he’s fast, that he has his daddy’s running calves and I think he’ll probably set a state record in the mile someday. I want everyone to see him grab my face and give me a kiss, how he purses his lips and puckers up like he means it. I want everyone to watch him snuggle with me, because he loves to pull his knees up, tuck his arms in, and get cozy on my chest; the same position he spent the first few weeks of his life in. But I can’t get them to look up from their box checking, from the story they are writing about him. I know, it’s their job and we all need this, he needs this. But I cannot say this is easy.

It’s not easy when my little guy pinches and bites because he can’t yet say “no” or “mine” or any other toddler phrase to indicate he’s not ok. It’s terribly hard to explain to other mamas I barely know that he doesn’t have a malicious bone in his body; he is just learning how to behave with what he has in his tool box. My heart is screaming that I’m trying every hour of the day to help him fill that toolbox, I am! He’s a good boy; I’m trying to be a good mom, really! But that’s not what anyone wants to hear, not as they comfort their own child and examine the bite mark mine left. So I just apologize again and again, worrying too much about what they think. No, this part, the middle of the story, is not easy. Most good stories have some hard.

So I am reminding myself daily that every great story does not start with the hard, but with the Perfect. When the story starts with Perfect, we get a different story altogether; one that is never so hard that redemption can’t be woven through each chapter.  

I do not know what is ahead for my little guy. I know there will be challenges, and I expect more weeks of near-constant tears on my end. I know there will also be victories, that he will learn a new word and we will cheer him on like he won a gold medal. I anticipate a good week, then a bad week, then a madder-than-hell week and a bursting with gratitude week. I imagine a lot of repentance, and at times, a desperate longing for home… not this one. Aren’t we all longing for our real home, though?

But what I do know is that this story will end the same way it started: with our Perfect God. And I don’t want to miss one second of the glory that my little boy’s life might give to Him. Not one second. Who am I to wish away anything that would make much of Jesus? Isn’t that is what we are here for in the first place?

So no, the story doesn’t start with challenge, or diagnoses, or developmental delays and missed milestones. It doesn’t start with tears or feelings of failure. It doesn’t start with unknown or wondering or hoping and praying that all the therapy results in making up these deficiencies. It will include all of those things, and we will have to learn how to live each and every one of them. But they will all help us get to the ending, the Perfect ending.

The uncertainty of this story is both impossibly hard and going to be fine, and it is both of those things at the same time. I don’t know what will happen, but I know that the worst thing that could happen would be missing Jesus in all of it. The paradoxes of walking with a perfect Savior in a far from perfect world are many; there is a very real tension of wanting so many things for our children but wanting one thing for them above everything. But this story, this may be exactly how God is getting us to that one thing, to Him. To Perfect.

For each one of us, all of our lives are bookended with Perfection; a single sentence in the big story between Eden and a New Earth. And I can’t think of one thing that would make the in-between more worth living fully, for His glory, than knowing that.  

*A note from Katie: I prayed for three days before publishing this essay; it's a big deal to tell the world that your child, someone you love more than life, is struggling. But I've never known how to do anything in my writing but be honest, and when you stare at a good, good God for that long, every story that makes you cling to Him seems worth telling. We have no shame or stigma associated with Cannon's journey or the therapy he will continue doing; he is a happy, healthy, joy-to-parent little boy. And we just want God to get the glory for the perfect gift he has given us in our family.

On March 9th, I woke up, grabbed my phone and my daughter, and excitedly said, “Harper, let’s call Auntie Emmy and tell her Happy Birthday!” So we did, our enthusiastic singing voices ready and willing. Emily didn’t answer (thank goodness, she would have been too nice to stop me in the moment), so we sent a text saying something along the lines of: We were just calling to sing you HAPPY BIRTHDAY and tell you how much love you!

A few hours later Emily responded: “Thank you for the birthday love! And you’re the very first person to wish me Happy Birthday… because it’s on the 12th! Thanks for being early, I love you!” followed by little laughing emoticons and then a heart, almost as if she was saying: “it’s ok that you’re a dummy, Katie, I love you anyway.”

If I had just met Emily, say, a year ago, this might be excusable. New friendships celebrate birthdays, but sometimes we only remember the general month and need a reminder of the date. But y’all, let me give you a little context: Emily is one of my people. She introduced me to my husband, stood up at my wedding, watched me birth two children and got maybe the second or third text after grandparents when the third was born. There are simply not that many people on this earth that I should remember the birthdate of more. I have been celebrating her on March 12th for ten years, an entire decade. Still, in the year of our Lord 2016, let it be known that I forgot my best friend’s birthday. It became the latest in a growing list of obvious symptoms that I am suffering from, and they all point to the same diagnosis: Mom brain. Severe, undeniable, mom brain. It’s a real thing; the combination of being short on sleep and heavy on diapers.

Maybe many of you can relate. Emails go unresponded to. Text messages get forgotten. Days of the week? Well, goodnight! I call Jordi by his brother’s name two dozen times a day, cannot remember for life of me where I put the checkbook last (wait, did I even write that check I was supposed to?), and if you ask me about dinner plans I’m not speaking to you for a month (but let’s be honest, I would probably forget that you texted, anyway).

At this point, I believe I can only be relied upon to remember that my name is Katie and I have, two... I mean three children ages three and under.

Last night I fell asleep nursing Jordi. The heavy, dead asleep kind of sleep. It was 8:40pm; I had not brushed my teeth or taken my mascara off. I came to a little after 9:00pm, a little bit shaky from the REM cycle I started to enter but abruptly came up from, did a quick mental assessment of where I was, who I was, and where my other kids should be (sleeping, thankyouJesus!), lifted my baby into his crib, took my jeans off, and went right back to bed. I wish I were making this up.

A mere four years ago not taking my makeup off was unthinkable, and not brushing my teeth?! I mean, I can’t even tell you how repulsive the thought was to me. But here is the honest truth: around 7:00 at night my mental acuity, which has been slowly leaking all day, is pretty much gone. In its place a general sense of apathy for my appearance sets in, including the health of my teeth and state of my skin (speaking of which, my left is eye is screaming at me today for leaving the mascara on; like a mean mommy-hangover from the party I had with three babies last night). 

I never thought it would come to this. Alas, it has. It absolutely has. Virtually everything I prided myself on in my pre-mom life has a diminished capacity at this point; including being relevant, fit, intelligent, on-time, and organized. The former athlete deep down hardly recognizes the girl whose last real calorie burn was three weeks ago. I’m trying to remember what it was like to be intellectually engaged, but let’s be honest, anything more difficult than the ABC song is a stretch. And someone used the word ‘fleek’ on instagram the other day. What in the world could that possibly mean? I realize society is moving on without me when completely made-up words find legitimacy, but I have no room in my life for that, so whatever. My personal bandwidth is measuring at about 95% children right now. But, all three are alive and fed today, so let’s just focus on that and call it a victory.

I can only hope that there is a bend in the road somewhere up ahead. I’m told there is, and I’m trusting my sources.

For today, I’m looking at my red-eye in the mirror and just laughing. I have to laugh. Taking yourself too seriously only exacerbates the mom brain symptoms. And I know I will have this season one time and it’s gone. I have a husband who validates that this gig can be hard and jumps in to share it every minute that he is home. I have friends who are nothing but gracious, and two grandmas who live in town (holla!). And I have sweet, smiling faces and sticky fingers climbing all over me at this very moment, and my heart could just burst. (So could my brain, but I’ll take that trade). 

Alex and I bought our first home in 2013. We had welcomed Harper six weeks before, and even though we knew our budget would be down to the penny every month, buying turned out to be the best option. We looked seriously at three homes: the first needed too much work, the second rejected the offer we put in, and the third was at the very very very top of our budget and we just didn’t know if we could take the chance. But when the first two options didn’t work out, we landed on the third and went for it. Prayerfully and nervously, I might add.

We walked in to a beautifully simple home with four bedrooms, a big backyard, a nice open kitchen and dreams of raising our family in that space. It was a house I never thought we could afford at the time, but we trusted God with our pennies and three years, two more babies, and a hundred memories later we made it a home.

I never want to forget the feeling of gratitude I had for that space. It was more than we needed then, and it has been everything we’ve needed since.

This weekend, we packed up all we own, got rid of half of it, and moved the rest into a little storage unit until our new house is ready for us. We’ve picked a new place to make our own; same size, different layout, and just because I want my fellow writers to be a teensy bit jealous: a writing room. With French doors. (I could be noble and tell you we bought the house because it had four bedrooms all on the same level, but come on, it was the French doors).

Still, as excited as I am for a new place, I can’t help but look at the one we just left and feel nostalgic for it. Our first home was the place Harper and Cannon learned to crawl and walk, and where they both found out quickly that as soon as they could reach the bay window, they could see daddy coming home.

It was the place Alex and I woke up early a million times to sit at the table together and talk about God’s word as the sun said good morning from the mountain view behind us. And it was the place we prayed fervently for our family, our friends, big decisions, and small anxieties.

It was the place we crammed more than twenty people into our living room for small group, where we had make-your-own-pizza dinners with friends, birthday parties in the backyard, and where, last summer, we devoured sweet red cherries from the tree in the front yard.

It’s where we fought and made up, where we all took plenty of timeouts, where we hugged and loved and laughed a lot. It was our home; simultaneously our clean and messy place, our put together and falling apart place, our comfort and growth zone place. And I think that maybe, that’s just what a home should be.

As we pray over the new street we will live on, the home we will all continue to grow in, and the people we will welcome through our doors, we want God to teach us even more what it looks like to love Him well with our place, to be brave in this world for His glory. 

I'm so thankful for our first home. It will forever be that, our first place. What a privilege. A home is no small thing, it's a great thing. And the goal is really the same no matter where we physically are: As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord. Let it be so. 

Three years, three babies. Sometimes I cannot believe that myself.

I have been pregnant or nursing since March of 2012, and I can say with confidence that I was totally done having babies four months and two weeks ago. Done and done. I was too sick in the first trimester, and my varicose veins were too puffy in the third. I was exhausted and irritable, sleep was elusive, toddlers were needy, and I just knew that being pregnant again was off the table.

But, Jordi.

This third baby of mine is as sweet as they come, and he has been since the day he was born. In fact, I hardly remember life without him.

(I hardly remember anything these days, but that is a whole other thing.)

I think for every mama, there is “before and after” with every baby. I was one person before Harper, and another after. And I was one kind of mother as a mom to one baby and a different one when Cannon joined us. And now there are three, and I have never had to dig to such deep places of resolve in my life.

Three babies has meant a lot of things to me, the first and most obvious is learning to cope with the absence of sleep (amen, mamas?). I’m guessing the amount of times all three children have slept consecutively more than six hours since Jordi was born would be around five. Five nights in four months where no one in the house woke up for six straight hours. Sometimes I sure miss my college days.

And besides learning to operate with limited shut-eye, three babies has meant a minivan, and the most attractive display of me crawling over, through, and around seats to buckle the three-year-old in the back. It has meant a lot of time at home, because taking a chance that the big carts will be unavailable at the grocery is just too uncertain. It has meant we eat a lot of Panera and even more quesadillas, because the odds of all three children not needing something for thirty solid minutes between 3:30 and 5:00pm are slim to none.

Three babies has meant I do a lot of things I “never” thought I would as a mom: you want a third fruit snack? Fine. You’ve had your diaper on all day? Well it was only pee so you’re ok. Cannon has a sharp object in his hand? Well, I’m nursing a fussy baby so ‘hey three-year-old, will you just grab it from him and carefully bring it to mommy?’ (Kidding on that last one. It wasn’t that sharp of an object.)

Three kids has felt like a lot more than two kids. No more man-to-man defense. Sometimes more than one babysitter necessary.

But, Jordi.

Every time I pick this boy up I am reminded of joy: no small thing in our world these days. Jordi teaches me again about the unmerited blessing that a baby truly is, and of the sweet praise I want to sing to Jesus for each moment I have to be a mama. His chubby cheeks are gloriously kissable. He wakes up with a smile on his face, and loves to be tickled underneath his double chin. And when I sing to him, he purses his lips with the softest, sweetest coo, almost like he knows that melody is just for him in that moment and he’s telling me how much he loves it.

This fleeting season of motherhood is one in which I am stretched thin in different ways by each child. It’s hard sometimes, because anxiety and fear and the worry that I am failing are unwelcome friends of mine. But the good far outweighs the hard. I just love this job. I can’t do it alone, but Jesus is teaching me every day that I can do it with him. And my third baby, he has been everything I needed and more to truly learn that.

Maybe we are done having kids. I’ll answer that next year. Or maybe I won’t. I cannot imagine only having three, and I cannot imagine having four—so there’s that for clarity. But I know this for sure: my hands are full but my heart is fuller.

And I don’t even care that I’m ending on a cliché.

Good Friday. It is a day that, for followers of Jesus, is a bit of a misnomer. It is good, in the sense that it was the day our Savior turned over every right of his own to give them to us. It is good because we know that it is followed by the most miraculous event mankind has ever known: the resurrection of Jesus of Nazareth. It is good because without this day, there is no hope for humanity.

But in reality, this day was painful, it was scary, is was full of fear and it was, for a short time, a moment that darkness won.

The day began with betrayal. Judas, one of Jesus’ closest friends and followers, sold the love and trust built over three years for thirty pieces of silver and a brief moment of recognition from the people in power.

Next came an arrest, and a barrage of false accusations toward a man who refused to defend himself. When cursed, he took it. When insulted, he remained silent. When asked to give an answer as to whether or not he was the Son of God, his only response was, “You have said so.” No arguing. No throwing three years of miracles and testimonies back in his accusers face. Just the greatest display of humility the world has ever seen.

Then came the abuse. The whip. The crown of thorns. The spit and the mockery. And while his body was beaten so was his soul, as no one emerged from the angry crowd to defend him but instead gathered a collective strength to ask that a notorious prisoner be released rather than him.

In the midst of all of this was the pain and confusion of those who gave their lives to follow him. Mary, his mother, watched each drop of blood spill from his body. Peter, a loyal friend and follower, lost himself in doubt and fear and anxiety and three times denied ever knowing him at all. The rest of his small tribe of eleven may have been somewhere in the chaos of the crowd, but none emerged as defender, no one spoke up as an advocate.

Then came the darkness. For three hours in the middle of the afternoon, there was darkness over all the land before the moment that the agonizing cry of Jesus made an echo for eternity: My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? The sin and struggle of the whole world laid squarely on a man who deserved none of it, satisfying the justice of God, providing every man in history an answer for the condition of his heart.

Death won the day on Good Friday. It won with fear, it won with doubt, and it won with a brief moment of wondering, “where is our Savior now?”

I’ve been thinking a lot this week about how to talk to my kids about Easter. We picked out a cute dress for Harper and polo shirts for Cannon and Jordi. We will have an Easter egg hunt with Grandma and brunch with our family. We will tell the story to Harper with the help of our “Resurrection Eggs” and try to keep the tiny silver cup and crown of thorns out of Cannon’s mouth as we do. For now, these things will suffice. They will mark Easter as a special day in their little minds, and we will pray with growing fervor that the weighty truth of this beautiful holiday lands heavy in their hearts as they grow.

But cute dresses and colorful plastic eggs will not always be enough. Our best attempts at helping our kids make sense of these three days in history will always fall short if we don’t face the truth: we live in a world that feels a lot like Good Friday. The fear in our lives today is real; we are reading stories of innocent lives taken by bombs and guns and we cannot help but wonder where next, God, and who next? How long shall the wicked triumph? The doubt in our lives is real; we are both hearing and living stories of pain and injustice and a life far from that of Eden, and we wonder if our faith is big enough to get through it all. We are watching political rhetoric fall to the lowest level of dignity, if it even has any of that left. We see divisiveness at every turn even among our own families and communities, and a lot of us, we wonder all the time, “where is our Savior now?”

So much of life is a Good Friday kind of feeling.

Mary, Peter, the disciples, and many of the people who put their faith in a man who mystified the first-century world, they spent three days thinking the story ended on Friday. They saw their Rabbi, their friend, put to a torturous death. They had watched with terror and shame as an innocent man was brutally executed and I can only imagine that their grief clouded any ability to know what to do next.

But Sunday came. And we know that on Sunday, two women went to the most guarded tomb in history and found it empty. Empty. A boulder, Roman soldiers, weapons, and law on the side of the accusers, and the once-dead defendant walked out on his own, met the two awe-struck women on the road, and greeted them. 

We know that Jesus then met his disciples on a mountain in Galilee, and before instructing them to tell this very story to the whole world, he promised, “I am with you always...”

We know that the Holy Spirit descended on the small church of believers not many days from that promise, and under the power of that Spirit the first believers spread the gospel of Jesus throughout the ancient world. We gather in churches today, two thousand years later, thanks to the conviction of those brave men and women.

The people who were the most afraid on Good Friday became the most courageous after Sunday. The very same man whom they were afraid for their lives to speak up for became the savior they couldn’t stop talking about. Their fear turned to courage because of Sunday, because of an empty grave, because of an impossible truth: He is not here, He is risen!

The whole earth is groaning, longing for Eden again. It is easy for fear and doubt and wonder to cripple our faith, like they did the evening of Good Friday.

But friends, we also have Sunday.   

As I try to tell these truths to my children, I realize anew how powerful they are to me.

Because soon the little faces in front of me will be older, and I know at some point life will start to feel the Good Friday kind of hard to them, too. But I will tell them that we serve a good, good, Father. We know that he is trustworthy, and we know that his holiness is our hope. I will tell them that our lives are as short as a breath, but that we can tell a beautiful story of redemptive work in the time we are given. I will tell them that if this story we tell on Easter is true, then it changes everything. And if it is not true, not even the Easter egg hunt is worth it. And I will tell them that when it seems like death has won the day, remember that Jesus Christ won the world. Even when life feels heavy like Friday, we can live with the joy and boldness of Sunday. What amazing grace!

And then, because we never outgrow our need to be reminded that our faith is only in that selfless act on the cross, I will tell myself those very same things.

the official mug shot.

The whirlwind of the morning was starting to wear me down. In a mere thirty minutes my un-showered self and my tribe of three were supposed to be out the door, in the car, and on our way to church. Dad was volunteering at church that morning, so he was already gone, but we were going to show up kind and well-behaved and on time, ready with our “so good to see you!” smiles because, for the love, it was church! And church is for Jesus, so our good behavior counts extra there.

(No, it doesn’t.)

(But if I’m real honest I tend to act like it does, like if I can appear really “together” in God’s house then I don’t have to be quite as “together” outside of it.)

(But that’s another story. Let’s get back to this one.)

And then I saw it. The pink. Permanent pink, I should add. It was on the couch. It was on the table. It was on the walls tracking from the playroom up the stairs. Y’all, it was on my daughter’s English muffin, which traced it right back to the source.

“Harper, what’s on your hands?”

“Oh, mommy, I was just making cards for you!”

“Ok, well can I see your hands?”

Shyly, slowly, with the trepidation of a dozen excuses that she couldn’t quite find at the tip of her tongue, she turned her hands over.

Busted.

Ten fingers, perfectly dipped in a pink embossing stamp pad that mommy thought she had put high enough on the shelf. But is anything ever too high for a three-year-old? No. They have ninja like qualities we don’t even know about, and they are stealth enough to open the once out of reach goods as far out of eyesight as they can get from mommy, too.

But church, CHURCH! We are supposed to go to church now! And church is for Jesus, three-year-old! And that means we should act like him, dang it!

(You know where this is going, yes?)

I have to parent no more than one hour every morning before hypocrisy slaps me in the face.

I’ve been spending quite a bit of time lately with John Piper’s words. And as always, they are compelling—as beautifully crafted as they are powerfully convicting. One of the lessons that I’ve been working out in my heart is what Piper calls “a single, all-embracing, all-transforming passion: to glorify God by enjoying and displaying his excellence.” Enjoy God. Show Him to others. Piper says it is our aim to “joyfully magnify Christ—to make Him look great in all that we do.”

Here’s the thing, I read those words just two hours before the great ink-down in our house. And when I looked around at the pink that may or may not come off of the various surfaces ten little fingers had left it, I wanted to be mad. I wanted to yell. I wanted to shame my little three-year-old into a behavior that would make my morning easier, especially because we were going to church. I mean, didn’t she know that?!

But those words… enjoy God, show Him to others. The mirror of my own reproof spun right around, and all I could think of was my own heart. The correction from the Lord felt something like this:

Katie, don’t you dare enjoy Me just in the church lobby.

Or to earn favor among friends.

Or to scratch and claw for influence.

Or to be seen or heard or applauded.

Enjoy Me because I am God. Show Me to others because I am good.

And really, before you worry one bit about how your Christianity is displayed on the outside, know that I care so much more how it is displayed in your home. Show Me to your babies. Tell them how gracious I am, and live out what loving-kindness actually looks like. Discipline because you love them, but love them as you discipline.

This is your work today. These three faces, one with pink ink staining her fingers, are my sweet gift to you. Be glad in me so you can help them to be glad in Me, too. The hope of both of your lives is faith in Me. 

There are a lot of days that I feel like I am drowning in little people. And responsibilities. And dreams. And so many- mostly good- things. But I know that it is in those moments when it’s most important to ask Jesus to help me make Him look great in all I do. All I do. A deep breath, a prayer, and a gentle correction, then the whole trajectory of our morning is different. The role of mama was not given to me because I am good enough for it; it was given to me because God knew he was going to show me more of Himself in this way. And he is, every single day. My inadequacies- and they are many- remind me each hour that I need his grace, and that it will be enough.

“God made me a mother because he jealously and rightly desires praise for his own name, and this is how he saw fit to do it. God aims to glorify himself through our family, and we get to be carried along by his grace.” –Gloria Furman

A rare moment of middle-of-the-day silence in my house. Captured here because I felt what I always long to feel: peace.

Oh you guys, where do I begin the saga? My love-tolerate relationship with social media is a whole thing. 2016 was the year I decided I would be (mostly) off, declaring war on the whole enterprise, vowing to become a woman above the system. Who needs Instagram?! And I will make real phone calls! were my warrior cries. No more time wasted on things that did not concern me; just a peaceful year unattached to things irrelevant in my daily life.

Well, two months in, and I think I have downgraded this from a war to a battle.

The world is talking on social media. They are. For better or worse, information, thought, opinion, connection, these things are all happening and being shared virtually. And besides that, I am in a handful of working groups that talk only on social media: it is the easiest and most streamlined platform for many types of communication. So it is difficult to be as extreme as I initially wanted to be and cut it all out cold turkey.

My biggest struggle has always been, and still is, with the need for approval. When I put something on social media, the line between being proud to share it and being obsessed with the reception of it is very thin for me. Insecurity runs deep in my heart, so any type of vulnerability can easily make me a crazy person. But I am wondering now, can I discipline myself to that place of security I really want to live in, or can I only pray my way there? I have a feeling it is the latter.

Information sharing is not bad, but it can be a bit of a minefield. And social media tends to reveal to me very quickly when I am stepping on those mines: too much comparison, too much frustration at views I disagree with, an inability to celebrate the success of others, feeling left out, feeling prideful, you name it. Social media makes the pendulum swing to both of ends of the poor motives scale for me.

But again, is it social media, or is it my heart? And again, I think it’s the latter.

Because social media has also recently connected me with amazing writers, and I am loving their work and the friendship slowly being forged even though we have never met. Instagram and Facebook are allowing me in to friends’ lives that I would not stay in touch with nearly as much without. And some of the most meaningful influences (i.e. people I look up to the most) in my life have come through social media. I love the encouragement and the goodness that people can spread through a virtual platform.

So what does this all look for a social media life? I have no idea. I was very late to two engagements, the birth of a friend’s baby girl, and countless other fun moments in the lives of people I love. I don’t like that feeling. I also have not struggled much with comparison, jealousy, or frustration with Facebook debates that I never join but certainly read. And I love those feelings. Somewhere in there is a healthy balance, a sound approach to using this great tool of social media but not letting it use me. Peace is something that is so hard to come by these days. There is always something to worry about, always realities I wish I did not have to face. In a world that is loud and chaotic, my heart longs for stillness and quiet. Can I still find that in a world, specifically a social world, so deeply interconnected? It feels a little bit like landing a plane on a postage stamp, but it’s not impossible.

So, I am still battling this out, but I’m learning that the more say I gave God’s word in my life, naturally the less say social media has. How I start my days and how I fill them is completely my responsibility, not social media’s. And if good things can come from being in the social media world but not of it, than I do want to be in.

My prayer is this: that even my social life would somehow point always to God’s goodness.  

“Harper, do you know what we get to do today?”

“What?!” she responded with enthusiasm, even as she wiped the sleep from her tired eyes.

“We get to go look at PRESCHOOL!” I said back to her as I sat down on the edge of her bed. And I don’t think I will ever forget what she did next.

With the full force of a three-year’s energy, Harper jumped straight up in her bed and broke out in song, gleefully stringing together a made up chorus of words that went something like, “Oh oh, hey hey, I’m going to see my school! Oh yeah, oh yeah! Preschool! Preschool!”

“Harper, we are just going to look at it. You can’t start school for a few more months. Now let’s get out of bed and get dressed. Maybe I can even comb your hair this morning?” I stood up and started toward the door, but she just kept jumping, blissfully unaware of the hair brushing comment, singing her little heart out.

“Oh oh, hey hey, I’m going to see my school! Oh yeah, oh yeah! Preschool! Preschool!”

Later that morning we pulled up to the church and headed toward the hallway where the current preschoolers were in class. Some were playing in the “discovery zone,” others were having their morning devotion, and still another class was learning about the ocean. Everywhere Harper turned, she was mesmerized. The paintings on the wall, the cubbies, the laughter, the kind teachers, all of it leaving my three-year old wide-eyed and speechless. She is never speechless, so this was notable. It took ten minutes for Alex and I to feel great about the school, but it had Harper at “hello!”

A few hours after our tour, the director sent me an email saying that they had a student move away a few weeks ago, and if Harper wanted to finish out the school year with them in the three-year old class that she would be welcome to do so.

Harper turned three in December, so technically she should start preschool in the fall of this year. But as I read that email and thought of sending Harper away three mornings a week, like, right now, I immediately thought back to my morning jumping bean.   

“Oh oh, hey hey, I’m going to see my school! Oh yeah, oh yeah! Preschool! Preschool!”

I think she is ready. Her little school bag looks far too big and just the right size at the very same time.

Not long ago, this day felt a million years away. These things always do; the seasons or events you know are coming, but the right now feels like so much to manage that the someday soon is hard to picture. Not long ago I felt like we had all the time in the world together: time to stay in our jammies, make cards for friends, put dresses on and pretend we live in a castle; or time to do nothing at all, and those have always been my favorite.

But she is taking a small step off on her own now. She’ll make her own friends and start to blaze her own little path, and both of those things I can’t wait to watch her do. But do you know what is the hardest part for me? It’s this: that someone else will be reading her books each day, holding her hand across the balance beam, giving her a hug when she falls down, or asking her to apologize when she makes a mistake. I’m jealous of that, if I’m honest. It’s always been my job to read, hold, hug, and talk about grace. And now I have to share it. This is right, and I know it. But gosh, the thought is hard on a mama’s heart, isn’t it?

We’ve had only 5 days to think about Harper going to school. But maybe it is better for me this way? You know, less time to come up with reasons to be anxious about it all. And I just keep telling myself this: Harper is ready. She loves everything about the idea of her preschool: the toys, the friends, and the carpet square with her name on it. And I am almost ready to let her go—though I’m certain another six months would not make me more ready. Is a mama ever really ready? I am not sure we are. Sometimes we just have to fake it a little.

I am thrilled for my girl. She is life and energy and joy in a three-year-old body, and watching her grow is one of my favorite things to do.

Go shine bright, Harper. So proud to be your mama.

“Our job is not to save our children. Our job is to teach them about Jesus, putting as much kindling around their hearts as we possibly can so that the Holy Spirit can come in and ignite the fire.” –Matt Chandler

I have no idea how to raise a child.

That was the hovering mantra of my life two years ago. Closing in on my third trimester with my second baby and watching my toddler turn in to her own person—a little girl with a Will (yes, capital W)— was a season of mostly fear and inadequacy. I watched other mamas, especially ones with little girls who seemed (much) quicker to obey than mine, and I did that dreaded comparison thing, dooming my children and myself to a lifetime of battle lines and tears. From mom. I was usually the one crying.

From the top of my staircase, looking down on a little girl who was supposed to be in timeout but had “no” on repeat at the top of her lungs, I just knew it could not go on like this. Our lives could not become day after day of defeats when I was less than two years in to parenting. That could not possibly be how God designed this.

But I also knew that he designed her, the precious toddler at the bottom of the stairs. And he designed us to go together. There was a way to navigate this journey and we were going to find it.

And you know, some days, I think we have. But the way has been a change in me, not in my kids. The way was getting back to God’s word, to the lessons He has always been exhorting in all of us, young and old. The way has been daily dying to myself and seeing motherhood as one of the primary means of sanctification in my life—the process through which God was going to show me how much I need him to ever become more like him. Figuring out how to be a mama has meant becoming more teachable, more repentant, more patient, and more humble while simultaneously becoming more confident in God’s word, more unshakable as I trust in His sovereignty, and more determined to know and love Him in front of my children.   

The way to parent has become, and will always be, more about my perspective than about my children. Motherhood did not get easier. There are still moments of looking down at my toddler from the top of the stairs, wishing she would relent and take the time-out so I don’t have to follow through on my warning to spank. And my son, my sweet, soft-spoken middle child, he was kicked out of church for biting last week. So, let’s not pretend I’ve got this under control. But the difference is that, two years ago, I was exasperated in moments like that, in circumstances when things were not going well and I did not have the answers; today I am prayerful. I see it as my blessed job to shepherd these hearts toward Jesus and not as my cross to bear to raise less-than-easily-compliant children. (Everyone is ­less-than-compliant. That’s why Jesus came in the first place.)

Motherhood is hard, but I don’t think it is supposed to be a life sentence of frustration. A few trusted friends and mentors spoke that truth to me again and again. (Oh, where I would be without my people, I do not know!) They validated the confidence that being in God’s word would teach me and change me and equip me to love even on the most sleep-deprived nights. And then when I would still fail, the grace of Jesus would cover the gaps. Because the law of God and the rules of our home only serve to reveal where our hearts are. Just like Jesus tenderly does with us when we sin, we can do with our children: go after their hearts.

I cannot get through one day of mothering my three littles without clinging to the gospel. Not one. That’s how often I mess this responsibility up. But the realization that the very best thing I can do is teach my children the gospel and pray that the Holy Spirit makes it come alive for them, that shifts my focus from the tough moment to the eternal glory. Game changer. My failure becomes a lesson in repentance. My children’s need for training becomes a teachable moment for all of us. And motherhood becomes the work, not the thing in the way of any other work.

Now I cannot give parenting advice to anyone. The thought is laughable. But I can give a (growing) list of resources that have helped me change the way I think about this work; things that have helped Alex and I put the kindling around the fire our kids’ hearts. Most of these came at the recommendation of people much wiser than me— which underscores the need we all have for community—and all of them have directed me to Jesus, then reminded me that my babies need Him, not just behavior modification. And that’s the goal: give them Jesus, at every opportunity, every day.

*No affiliate links are used here, these are genuinely resources that I love, and I hope you do, too.

The Bible
This is where God does his business with us. The more I fall in love with scripture, the more I fall in love with motherhood. It’s true.

Entrusted with a Child’s Heart
This is a Bible study/Parenting curriculum that my dear friend, Meghan, introduced me to. I have done the class twice. Would do it again in a second. It’s wisdom is biblical, practical, and tangible.

Mom Enough
Fully half of this book is underlined, but these words are some of my favorites: “I don’t want my children to treat God like a vending machine or a fire insurance policy. I want them to have a passionate love for God that is alive and outgoing, bowing to his supremacy and anchored gladly in his gospel. I want them to love God’s word and hold to it firmly in times of uncertainty. I want them to show Jesus to the world.” (Are you fist-pumping with me?!)

Treasuring Christ When Your Hands are Full by Gloria Furman
“Parental amnesia is when we forget about two thing: tomorrow and eternity… As mother’s we can so easily become fixated on the immaturity of these little image bearers, who show people their boogers, that we neglect to treasure them as reflections of God’s glory. In our noble efforts to practically raise our children to grow up to be adults, we often miss something. We miss the rising sun that signals another day of grace in which God has entrusted us with nurturing his little image bearers to love and honor him first and foremost.”

Walking with God in the Season of Motherhood by Melissa Kruger
An 11-week study, scripture saturated study on the sacred work of motherhood—and a ton of great reflections on ourselves as mamas, too.

Don’t Make Me Count to Three by Ginger Hubbard
This little book helped me more than I can say. Behavior modification was not working in our home, and the practical advice and great examples in this book helped begin a new language to use with our children.

Wise Words for Moms by Ginger Hubbard
A gift from my friend three years ago, this resource sat in a bin until about six months ago. My bad. Because when I found it again I realized something I did not when I received: it is gold. It now hangs on our refrigerator and we reference it daily in asking heart-probing questions to our kids.

Locking arms with you all as we raise a generation to love Jesus.

I said something out loud last week, something that only my husband and very closest people knew has been brewing in my heart for two decades. It’s a little big dream. Sometimes really little, and sometimes really big: it floats back and fourth between being buried in real responsibilities and burning to come out as if absolutely nothing is in its way. But lately, even though the responsibilities are bigger and heavier and feeling much more like I cannot do this all than at any other time in my life, this little big dream is trying to get out—forcing its way in to my thoughts and daily rhythms, sometimes invited, but more often than not showing up like a surprise houseguest that I must quickly change the dirty sheets and vacuum the guest bedroom for.

(And now that I write it, that is a fairly accurate metaphor for what this dream feels like.)

I want to write a book. A real one. I want to force myself down a path of focus and discipline and hearing from the Lord; crafting all my thoughts, my fears, what I’m learning, how I’m failing, where I’m growing and how the gospel enters in and turns all of that on its head, and I want to put that journey into prose that feels like having coffee with a good friend or wrapping up in the softest blanket. I want to write words that resonate, that connect us all by the common threads of never measuring up but longing to be enough. I want to tell the truth about myself, sharing stories that make readers feel like we’ve been friends for a lifetime. But mostly, I want it all to point to Jesus.

That last part is the real dream. Living a life and leaving a legacy that gives God glory.

But here is the hard part: they say you need a platform. The people who know about book writing stuff say you need to have a following, a social media presence, and a significant corner of the internet carved out that readers actually stop by and say hello in. They say people need to sorta-kinda-already-know who you are.

Well I don’t like any of that, not even a little bit. Because that advice feeds an idol in my life that I desperately want to leave at the foot of the cross; broken in pieces right there so that nothing stands between me and an unhindered gaze up at Jesus. (Jesus lets us look up at him, let’s not move past that miracle without a moment of awe). I am too quick to take comfort in the approval of others while my husband is concerned about our time together. I am all too easily comforted when my words about motherhood draw applause while my children are shooed away for the fourth time while I finish crafting them. I easily mistake writing about faith and justice for actually living faith and justice.  And that’s the thing about writing: when you have done it long enough, you start to get real good with words but can become real bad with life. And since only real life counts, I want to put all my stock there.

But there remains this dream to create, and my heart and mind long to do it. So the only way forward, the only way I can think of to make this houseguest comfortable while still being a woman of great faith in Jesus and true devotion to her family, is to pray, to offer this process back to One who I believe started it in me.

I’m praying big to stay small.

God, I am so very grateful for the cross, where every bit of my faith is centered. It’s where you took all the sin, all the ugliness, and all of the condemnation of my life and burned a path right through it for me to walk on straight to you.

I ask for forgiveness for the times my feet have strayed from that path towards ones that give the illusion of fulfillment, the ones that promise happiness but deliver emptiness, the ones that scream in bright lights ‘you’ll love it here’ but end up trapping me in a darkness of self-absorption.

I pray that this desire to create is guarded by your Word and fenced in with a reverence for the gospel that every sentence I write submits to.

I ask for inspiration that is saturated in the Holy Spirit, because on my own I have nothing of any lasting value to offer.

And I thank you for words, because in the right hands—yours—they are such a gift. May the ones you give to me always tell stories that make you beautiful, because you are… more so than I would ever be able to say.

When all is said and done, keep me small, Jesus. Give me a work to do, but keep me and my pride out of the way of getting it done.

You are so, so good to us, God. May the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart be pleasing to you, Jesus.