When You Feel Like A Less-Than Mother

“Lara, I think you’ve lost some weight.”

My mother-in-law’s words were a stake in my heart, though I know they were never meant to be. I finished zipping my jacket over my tiny baby bump. “Really? Maybe it’s just this jacket making it look that way,” I lied.  

She verbalized the fear I had pushed away all week. I’m not gaining the weight I’m supposed to.

Nine weeks into pregnancy, morning sickness came. Though I had not thrown up yet, each morning I was greeted with nausea that stayed with me all day. For most, this would be considered easy—at least you aren’t throwing up everything you try to eat. But for me, the mere thought of vomiting was crippling.

My fears of throwing up are what started my life-long journey of anxiety. After my first experience with the flu as a young girl, the thought of vomiting gave me a visceral reaction.  I would collapse into panic attacks—crying, screaming, sweating, shaking—anytime my stomach began to get that gurgling feeling. This fear became so strong that at times I refused to eat at all so I wouldn’t have something in my stomach to throw up.

The car ride with my mother-in-law was quiet as I nibbled a saltine. This is not what I pictured pregnancy to be like. Pregnancy was supposed to be exciting, full of pleasant surprises and sweet kicks in my belly. Instead, mine was filled with misery—reminders of the anxiety I had yet to conquer 15 years later as a grown woman. I felt like a weak child again, helpless to a fear that still held me in its grips.

God, why can’t I be free from this, even still? I prayed to myself, wondering and questioning with each silent plea: If I can’t conquer this anxiety, am I really ready for motherhood? How will I raise a courageous child, who can trust God in the unknown, meanwhile I still fight against this anxiety?

Momma, are you afraid that you don’t have it “together enough” to be a mom? Do you already feel like a failure when you see the put-together moms around you? Do you look at their perfectly still children sitting in the pews and feel like giving up?

Aside from my fears of throwing up, I have many other reasons to feel like a failure compared to my fellow mom friends. But God is giving me a new hope in him, and teaching me to stop looking around at others and start looking at him.

The Joy-Robbing Comparisons

It is a gift to be in a church with fellow mothers who love God and desire to raise their children according to his Word. It’s a joy to come alongside of them and to learn from their years of mothering, both by discussion and simply watching. We see in Titus 2 that this is God’s good intentions for the women in the body of Christ—that the older women would disciple and teach the younger.

“Older women likewise are to be reverent in behavior, not slanderers or slaves to much wine. They are to teach what is good, and so train the young women to love their husbands and children, to be self-controlled, pure, working at home, kind, and submissive to their own husbands, that the word of God may not be reviled.” (Titus 2:3-5 ESV).

Sadly, we have the tendency to turn that joyful gift into despairing heartache by comparing rather than learning. Rather than looking up to these women, we begin to despise and envy them in our hearts because we do not measure up. We compare our children, our words, our methods, and our choices to see whether we did better or worse. This creates for competition rather than fellowship, and exhausted sadness rather than joy.

This is what our sinful hearts are inclined to do. But we must train them according to God’s Word. Rather than giving way to despairing comparison, we should strive to learn from one another as God intended, and encourage one another in Christ. It’s not a competition but a relay race of passing the baton to the next generation, cheering on those who are still running, and learning from those who have years of training under their belts.

The Only Life-Giving Comparison

There is only one we should be comparing ourselves to in every aspect of our journey: Christ. Comparing ourselves to other women can lead to pride. But when we compare ourselves to Christ, we see ourselves rightly: An imperfect sinner who can never measure up. We realize that no matter how hard we strive, we will never meet his standard of perfection. Maybe with enough striving we could come close to matching our friends, but we will never match Christ in his blamelessness.

Instead of despair, this comparison should bring us joy as we remember the gospel. Christ died for imperfect people. He died for moms who would yell at their children, who would become annoyed with their chatter, and who would make poor choices. He died for sinful women like us. And he rose again, paving the way for us to rise to new life with him. He lived, died, and rose in perfection because we could not. And though we are totally undeserving of it, he accredits his righteousness to our account, as if we lived it.

When we trust in Jesus’ work on the cross and repent of our sins, he renews our hearts and give us the Holy Spirit so that we can obey him. Our new desire is not to strive to look like that put-together mom in the pew in front of us, but to look like Christ in order to glorify him.

If you are stuck in the game of comparison among the women in your church, remember the gospel. Preach this to your heart. Begin comparing yourself to Christ. In every aspect of your parenting, your goal is not to look like your friends, but to look like Christ. To lead your child gently as Christ leads the church. To teach them to repent of their sins and turn to Christ. This is your goal, momma.

The Sweet Tension

I stared out the window of the car, watching the evergreens pass by.

There was a sweetness to this tension of still struggling with my anxiety even now as a soon-to-be mom. As much as I hated the fear and wanted to be free from it, it was a constant reminder that I will never be a perfect mom. There’s no “getting it together” before baby comes. I am a weak and sinful human being who will always struggle, and so will my sweet baby. In those times of weakness, my baby doesn’t need a put-together-mom. My baby will need Jesus. And in spite of my own limitations and how much carrying a baby has reminded me of them, my anxiety has also been the reminder that in all my imperfections, I can point my baby to the Perfect Saviour.

Originally written for Strength & Song by Lara d’Entremont.

Patience Walks

“Hold on, Mom,” she says, dismounting from her pink bicycle again. She crouches down, her face inches from the ground. “This is important,” she tells me. 

We’re on one of our walks through the neighborhood, and already we’ve paused like this many times. We’ve examined pill bugs and spider webs, smooth black rocks and purple-flowered weeds, cracks in the sidewalk and one neighbor’s coral-colored roses. I feel the impatience begin to rise in my throat, the impulse to tell her, “Charlotte, get back on your bike. We need to keep going.” But at four years into this motherhood gig, I’ve finally started to learn to push that restlessness down. We don’t have to keep walking. We’re not here to move forward, after all. We’re here to do exactly what my oldest daughter does so well: engage in, watch, and pay attention to the world around us. 

——— 

Ten years ago, I was known as a fast-walker with a tongue to match my gait. I’d chosen a life in political action as a self-assured and overly confident 18-year-old, poised to change the world. I spent part of my eighteenth summer in Washington, D.C. 

I loved Washington. I drank in the hum of the city, the power and importance and history you could feel pulsing through its streets. When I used the metro, I admired how D.C. dwellers kept their travels business-like and straightforward, just the way I liked it. Gone were the backstreet meanderings of my small-town Idaho upbringing and the aimless, slow movement of farmers’ daughters with no place in particular to be. Everyone in D.C. had an urgent errand to dispatch and no time or need to interact with fellow passengers or take in the scenery. Eyes on Blackberries (yes, this was pre-iPhone), they walked with purposeful strides: slow-movers to the right, rushers to the left. It was orderly and controlled and swift. 

It wasn’t long before I learned to stop smiling at strangers like a wide-eyed Idahoan—it only confused people while they watched my hands nervously, expecting me to offer them an unwanted pamphlet or petition. I stopped noticing the hungry squirrels with their twitching noses that occupied sidewalks or the pigeons cooing beside bus stop benches. I stopped making eye contact and didn’t mind one bit. I felt D.C. and its residents understood me: they were willing to keep moving at my breakneck pace for 60-hour weeks rather than forcing me to tailgate their tractors on the highway like back home. 

———

Is it cliche to say my life didn’t end up how I thought it would? Maybe. Maybe it’s only cliche because so many of us have been rescued from the life we thought we wanted when we were 18 years old. 

The particulars aren’t relevant, but my fast-moving life in politics was pulled out from under me with little ceremony and less warning when my boss lost his re-election bid. My 10-year plan crumbled, my hopes died, and I felt (with all my teenage fervor) crushed. 

The next ten years brought college, a rediscovered affection for writing, marriage, a hodgepodge of jobs, and finally, two curly-haired daughters. Each year, circumstances slowed down my natural pace, sometimes maddeningly, like when I fought my physical limitations while pregnant or experienced the paralysis of anxiety. But nothing—absolutely nothing—has taught me to take a beat and practice some patience like motherhood. 

———

Mary Oliver’s Instructions for Living a Life commands: “Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.” 

My near-daily walks through our unremarkable, quaint neighborhood with my children look nothing like rushing through the metro tunnels of Washington, D.C. I haven’t moved forward—metaphorically and physically—at that pace in a long time. When my first daughter started biking, I could barely stand the painstakingly slow wandering and near-constant pauses for rocks, bugs, leaves, nuts, and flowers. Still stubbornly stuck in a point-A-to-point-B mindset, I’d chide my daughter and hurry her along. “We have to keep moving,” I’d say.

Until finally, I realized, who says? Is the point of life forward movement? Or am I missing out on paying attention? On being astonished at a stunningly yellow bumble bee or a fragrant lavender bush? On having something to tell about: missing out on the vibrant, beautiful, mundane moments that make a life?

I’ve started to call our neighborhood ambling my patience walks. When Charlotte stoops to pick a dandelion, I allow myself to breathe deeply and watch the wind play in the grass. The endless curiosity of my daughters’ childhood has given me an immense gift I don’t know I could have captured on my own—and it’s not only patience or a slower stride. It’s a sheer astonishment at the quotidian and deep pleasure in the mundane. Now when Charlotte tells me, “Stop Mom, this is important,” I agree. This is important. This is what we’re here to do. 

Originally written and published by Emily Fisk.

Nina Lost Her "No" Button

Children’s children are a crown to the aged, and parents are the pride of their children. (Proverbs 17:6 NIV)

I used to know how to say “no” quite well. When our children were young, I felt the full weight of responsibility on my shoulders to help shape and mold them into productive, sweet, kind, loving, gracious Christian women. Parenting instructions at the time informed me that enabling them to attain all these marvelous attributes meant saying “no.” A lot. Being firm. Making sure they obeyed. Came when called. No getting away with bad behavior. Providing consequences. I could “no” with the best of them. Second slice of dessert? No. Jump on the bed and hurt yourself or the bed? No. Get out of bed for an extra hug? No. A third glass of water after lights out, please? No, again.

Now I’m a Nina. Four of my grandchildren are currently living with us. Of course, they are adorable, just like the two who don’t live with me. And somehow, I seem to have lost the ability to say “no.” Jump on the bed? Um. Well, be careful dears. Extra water? Of course, honey. Read another book … oh look you brought me seven books. Well, yes! I’ll read all seven. I’m a complete pushover for these darlings. What in the world has happened?

A number of things have transpired in the decades between then and now. First of all, I regret that I was harsher than I needed to be with my own dear girls. Sure, firmness was needed at times, but sometimes my firmness was to be in control and not because it was best for them. I’d like to not repeat that, thank you. Second, I realize that my time with my grandchildren is short. I have the privilege of living with four of them for a year, but normally they all live far away and visits are not frequent. I want to be remembered by them as one who showed kindness and grace—not temper and fussiness. Third, I’m (thankfully) no longer the one in charge. The primary duty of discipline and training is their parents’ responsibility, not mine. My job is to learn the standards the parents have set and enforce them as best I can. Both my girls are kinder than I was, and I love the way they love their children. I want to be like them in extending grace and patience.

Oh, how I agree with our verse above. My children’s children are a “crown” and a joy to this Nina! How I want the second part of that verse to be true as well, that my children would be proud of me and the way I grandparent. I want to honor their parenting decisions and be a blessing to them as best I can. And that means … I do need to find that “no” button. Really. [Sigh.] At times it’s still needed, and what a struggle it can be to say that little, two-letter word.

Lord, help us, no matter what stage of life we are in, to treat the children in our lives with love and tenderness, wisdom and understanding. May the children we love grow into adults who love You. In Jesus’ Name—the One who loved children so well! Amen.

Originally written by Sharon Gamble of Sweet Selah Ministries.

On Guilt and Grief: Loving A Longing Sister In Your Season of Abundance

I have found myself seated on both sides of the fertility table. I have peered over my full plate into my sister's tear filled eyes, grieved by the emptiness of her womb and the pain of loss. I have also stared longingly at what my sister has been given, questioning why the tiny life I carried was not sustained while the one within her grew and flourished.

My nephew is a sort of marker for me of where our little one would be had he or she not died in the womb. My sister and my due dates were 3 weeks apart. Every milestone he hits, though I rejoice over his development, is a reminder of the milestones we will never experience with the child we lost: smiling, rolling over, sitting up, laughing, starting solids. As time has passed, the sting has lessened, but I have a feeling the sorrow will never fully subside. Because death is tragic. Because life is precious.

My first born son is a marker of this kind for someone very dear to me. I ached each time we were together while I was pregnant with him because I knew that my growing belly was a trigger for her, a reminder that her womb was empty. Even now each time I watch her playing with my son, who simply adores her, my heart aches for her over her loss. I miss her baby too.

To this day, these women are two of my dearest friends. But those initial weeks and months following each of our losses were admittedly painful and awkward, on both sides. The "survivor's guilt" that so often seems to plague the woman with full arms and a flourishing womb in the wake of her sister's grief can be a terribly lonely emotion.  It can also be accompanied by a feeling of responsibility for her sorrow, a desire to "fix" the pain of your sister, or even self-loathing or feelings of unworthiness. 

I fumbled to love my mourning sister in the wake of her loss as my belly grew. My sister who gave birth to her baby near the due date of the little one we lost has loved me so well in my grief and pain. If you, like me, find yourself plagued with guilt, at a loss for what to do to comfort your sister, or wondering how to share the news of life within you as she grieves the loss of hers, perhaps these suggestions, gleaned from my experience on both sides, may be of help. 

Let Yourself Off the Hook

You are not sovereign over life. God alone opens the womb and he alone numbers our days. You did not bless yourself with the gift of children, and being faithful to carry them to term and care for them is not a sinful stumbling block, its an act of obedience.  You are also not responsible for the loss of your sister. It was an effect of the fall allowed by God for purposes we may never understand. But we can have confidence as we see his authority over history that God knows what he's doing. Throughout scripture, fertility is so mysterious (barren women conceive in old age, the savior of the world is born to a virgin…), but what is clear is that God is sovereign over the womb, that he works all things together for the good of those who love him and are called according to his purpose, and that nothing happens apart from his loving and watchful eye. 

While it is true that in bearing one another's burdens we fulfill the law of Christ, weeping with those who weep does not require that we feel guilt over what we have been given in light of what they have not received. God is sovereign over the events of both of your lives, and will use you both in the life of the other. You can trust him. Let yourself off the hook as you ascribe to him the sovereignty, power, and might he possesses.

Don’t Add to Her Burden

The woman struggling with infertility or mourning the loss of life in the womb is walking through true grief. While it may very well be true that the flourishing of your family is a difficult thing for her to behold because it highlights her own lack, you do not need to be forgiven. Do not place upon your sister the burden of helping you feel at peace with the situation. Don’t cause her to feel like she needs to tell you that "it's okay" or that she's not mad at you. You are responsible for your own faithfulness to weep with her, not enforcing the commandment to rejoice with you upon her. Should she celebrate you, however, let her. Don't make it weird. Just communicate your gratitude for her role in the life of your family.

My own discomfort with my grieving sister caused me to want to rush her grief. I wanted her to be better and feel better so that things wouldn't be so awkward or feel so sad. This led to me saying unintentionally dismissive and belittling things. You don't need to burden her with a timeline that you're comfortable with for her grief. Your role is to support, encourage, and pray for her for as long as this season may last. Her grief, however uncomfortable it may make you feel, is not sin. You can affirm her lamentation as biblical. You can agree with her in her outrage over death.

Accept the Role You're Allowed to Play

We don’t always get to play the role we long to play in the grief of others, and the reality is, the fact that you are a walking trigger for the pain and trauma of your sister may mean that you are not the best person to minister to her during this season. Ask permission before acting. Don't pretend to know what she would want. Give her the opportunity to tell you.

You also should not assume that you're the person she most wants to confide in and share with, even if you have been in the past. If she asks for space, send her a resource, then respect her wishes. Loving through non face to face actions like mailing a resource or sending flowers is a great way to communicate your availability without  placing pressure on her to respond.

Entrust her to the Lord

When you don’t feel the freedom or cannot figure out how to talk to your sister, you may be tempted to talk about her. Perhaps with the intention of seeking advice or the desire to feel more involved or closer to her, you may betray details of her story or add to the drama of the situation by making the perceived chasm between you feel even wider. But rather than talking about her or strategizing to fix her situation, a better course of action is to intercede for her, and to let her know you're doing so. Praying for her is the most powerful thing you can do to love and practically help her. God knows her intimately and is able to care for her perfectly, even when you find yourself at a complete loss.

A Final Word 

Nothing about this situation is simple, but refusing to take things personally or think too much about yourself are two of the best courses of action you can take. The truth of the gospel enables us to selflessly love others. I would encourage you to move beyond these words and ask your Father for wisdom on how to love your sister well. His word tells us that he is faithful provide it when we ask.

Originally written by Abbey Wedgeworth of Gentle Leading. Used with permission.