Waiting and motherhood, a reflection

Life requires so much waiting, but for me, there is one bit of waiting that supersedes them all. It is the painfully slow waiting to actually learn the art of mothering. My first baby, and two others after him, were each placed naked on my chest, crinkly-skinned and helpless, after three arduous labors and deliveries. And what can I say? I was woefully unprepared, but I took them home anyway and I’ve done my absolute best. 

I’ve diapered, clothed, fed, hugged, bathed, rocked, and nurtured these sweet souls in moments of tender care.

But I’ve also scolded, ignored, threatened, hushed and rushed these little creatures in moments of frenzied frustration. 

I am a mother, yet I wait. I wait to become the kind of mother I have always longed to be, the one I know God is helping me become.

It’s my own kind of Advent place, really. A mother, yes, but not yet the mother I long to be. The role and duties are mine, yet the clarity and confidence I expected have not yet arrived in fullness. I thought I’d know what I am doing by now. 

Sometimes I wait with hope. Other times I wait with despair. Jesus, be my Helper.

I am forever grateful for that first becoming: Those little bodies placed on my chest, embodied souls entrusted to my care.

And as I grow in the art of mothering, God grants me glimpses of the second: Those occasional moments in which I mother with a winsome grace, where I see myself extending to my children the very things I long for and the things this weary world so desperately needs: 

Peace and patience. Compassionate correction. Firmness and fairness. Gentleness and strength. 

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A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices

For yonder breaks a new glorious morn.

-O Holy Night