I can barely finish a sentence these days. Oh thief of motherhood! When will you return my brain to me?
But, I did manage a short poem this evening. Not a title though. (That would just be too much to ask!)
As I parent my littles, I become more aware of myself. Of the good, the bad and the really bad. Recently, I’ve become acutely aware of how easily I believe lies and how easily those lies cause me to fear. Everything. You name it, I’ve feared it.
Sparrow is just tiptoeing into this realm. And it breaks my heart. Every night, I pray a prayer of brave fearlessness in Christ’s name over her. I didn’t have to do this a month ago.
And, one day, I will have to do it for Caleb.
Never did I realize that mothering is a form of battle. A battle against everything that threatens to steal Truth from those that we desperately love. Lord, grant me the strength to fight.
Beside a picture window, I nurse my child
while outside, summer’s first storm pummels
tree and grass and all brave wildflowers.
Near, two miles by my rudimentary count,
the storm wields a glinting axe blade
against a wooden sky. With each reckless
swing, I startle, expecting
this frail human at my breast
to do the same. But he’s asleep,
his small flinches from dream
not fear. Like Jesus
on the sea-tossed ship. How long
does it take the mind to deceive
the heart? How long until Hell
has chased Heaven from his memory
and he wakes, crying out?