Rise up and call me broken rather than blessed

In proverbs it states to train a child and when he is older he will not stray from it. I ponder what is it that I am truly invested in my children not straying from. The obvious is from God but what about all the other parts of life that I can only give my opinion, my experience, my fears for them. I look at the fragility of my children and accept that one day their hearts will be broken. That they will make mistakes and see the impurity of ugliness. So what is that I want them to hold near and not forget. That love is eternal and I will love them no matter what they do and choose not to do. I was raised to know Jesus and that I am thankful for  his eternal love.  However my passion was birthed from who I am today. I am passionate about women, human rights, and healing. I was not raised in these beliefs so I have no other choice to believe that my children will have his/her own without my input and perhaps approval. Mothering is not for the weak but its not for the ones who pretend to be strong. I am weakened daily by my faults, my disappointments and my own childhood. I rest in knowing that each one of my children will rise someday and perhaps not call me blessed but beautified by the mosaics of who they become in my life.

The Bra of Eve, Mary Magdalene, and Sarah

I find it amusing how we as women invest in something so delicate to define our womanhood, sexuality, and now even mothering. In all areas a bra appears to look different and even feel different. Over the years of mothering, I have come to a place of serenity that mine will be stretched to a place of no return. Nursing four babies seems to take all the delicate beauty and warp it in some wired item . However I am a woman of change and it has come to my attention that it is time to let go those Johnson & Johnson years moving forward to a place of much needed redemption. I became a wife and mother but a woman I AM. "Where's my bra?" and what exactly does that mean ? It has different meanings with different ages,  and different places. I implore you to search for your bra in where you sit today. Are you wearing one? Does it need to be washed or thrown out to die somewhere? Are you dying in your bra? Is it time to replace your "mom bra" with a reminder that you were once sexually inclined to leave it somewhere and forget? Now that's a vintage bra.  

When I chose the sexton over the sermon...

It has been almost three years since I suffered from post partum depression. I recall the day it hit me and my life was taken with no warning. The research is correct that once a woman has experienced this never ending hell; it follows you. Every now and then I can remember the unspeakable pain, the shame but most of all the pride that this wasn't suppose to be me. No longer was I this strong mama bear of my sweet cubs; I was this feeble, silent, unrecognizable pathetic mother that couldn't hold her baby . And it wasn't because I couldn't physically hold him ; I did not want to hold him. I shamefully hid from family and friends. I would sit for hours at the bookstore fumbling through books like they were my friends. One of them was Emily Dickson and her poetry. "

I consoled in the arms of her writings particularly her views "Some keep the Sabbath going to Church – I keep it, staying at Home – With a Bobolink for a Chorister – And an Orchard, for a Dome –

How I dwelled in Emily and understood her. I found comfort in every place but church. Make no mistake that Jesus was not with me. He was sitting with me every week in that bookstore helping me fumble through books finding my way back. He sent new friends there that mothered me, gently reminding me I was not alone.

Three years later I turn back celebrating the suffering and experienced first hand how suffering brings salvation. Jesus suffered for his children and brought you, me , the most unimaginable gift. I am not Jesus . I was just a mother who suffered and was redeemed by an unimaginable grace. This grace had no walls, no decoration, no words , just grace. A grace that turned my pain into a joy that gleams at being the mother of my sweet three year old. My shame is now a transparent cry to all the other mothers who suffer and need to know they are not alone.My pride was transformed into humility reminding me that I was worthy to be saved.

Bitch fire with Jesus throwing dashes of grace and mercy

This title makes me smile because it resonates a song in my family life the past few months and yes it was necessary to use the "B" word. It humors me when people say " I'm jealous of your move" . Where we are is where God chose to plant us but being moved was like having a scab of wounds cleaned out daily , and yes it was that ugly. I remember a friend sharing as I broke down many times in my weakness "Jessica this is Gods will not yours" As a christian, this is extremely easy to digest when its something like a new baby, new whatever, ect; however, its a whole different level when you watch someone you love suffer and would take the bullet before it ever hit him . Another friend looked at me while trying to hold in tears said " Jessica this is going to be the best thing for you and you will be okay." As Hell continued to reach closer to my family , I could feel the heat roaring its way around everything I cared about and it was only when I would yell out " I cant do this anymore" a rush of mercy would blanket over what seemed like an unimaginable fire. Another friend told me "Jessica, its like childbirth , your family is in transition and you are birthing a new life" Screw this new life, it feels like 20 lb watermelon and so hell continued. Through this journey and numerous tantrums, I discovered a whole different level of Gods grace and how really sufficient it is for us. Looking back he chose certain people to enter my life and partake in the suffering, the transition and now healing. Sadly he also took away people. I still remember a friend placing her hand on mine crying with me and I am still in awe of her transparency and willingness to meet me where I felt stranded.Really I am humbled by these certain friendships that arose and walked with me , loved me , nurtured me , and created a circle of trust around my fire. A true glimpse of what Jesus does in the midst of nothing. I learned that I am strong in HIS weakness and to befriend it because fighting only makes the fire rage. In a fire, they ask what is important is what you will run back in to save. I suppose without choice I ran in and grabbed my best friend, my soul mate, the father of my children but unfortunately when I got to the door I heard a whisper with a striking rod blocking me"Jessica, I did not call you to save, be still and know that I am God." I have heard this before and learned it's wise for me to shut up and sit down. So there it was sitting still in puddles of water hoping the burn would not be long and like HIS mercy it wasn't , just enough. Just enough to make me drown and reach out asking for HIS help. Just enough to pause , look at my children and step away from the idea of having anymore. Just enough to see what kind of wife , friend, daughter I wanted to be but mostly what kind of child of God I haven't been. In the past months, I have been forced to let go of many areas of my life. Mothering children in the midst of uncertainty can be beautiful because it allowed me to reach within , surrender, be honest and tell my children everything will be okay because Jesus will never forsake his children. Months later I sit here in awe of the calming storm and witness how Jesus continues to raise the dead, wash the dirt with his own spit and will always have manna to share. In the calmness I now celebrate suffering and how truly transforming it has been and the residue of it continues to reshape my life, my selfishness, my overabundance of need and challenges me of a purpose that doesn't have walls.

The Gingher Scissor

The portrait is blurry yet I can feel it pressed upon my template of parenting. Sometimes I can remember vividly and others I sit and create stories of butterflies with legs wearing a business suit. Distancing myself through pain was my teacher and observing distraction was hers as I now see her with the scissors that have been passed from her mother and grandmother. The sound of cutting was gentle and precise,carefully measured "so we do not waste." Patterns of lily pads dance in my head while I hear the "putt" "putt" under the small lamp so she can be alone. Never watching the process only receiving the instruction to be happy and thankful as I would be the prettiest princess of them all. With no worry, no thought , no teaching and hopefully no scissor to be passed down. As I sit here years after the sewing has passed, the scissors have been replaced with generic ones that only rape my childhood memory, I am filled with the portrait of a mother who was sad and lost yet with a simple pattern and grandmother's scissors she could create a dream for her children. My pattern today is not pretty nor perfected by the diligence of distractions. It has holes that my children have punched through when they are angry, red marker dots when they are creative and small shreds when they are proud. I hold idle that I do not share those difficult patterns she stared at daily but wonder how much of the portrait they will see of me , of their grandmother , the scissors. She has left the generational scissors that has cut many beautiful, complicated patterns and displayed many wounds from working late. Today I see an old mother who no longer holds those same scissors because her hands ache and her memory is lost somewhere in the best fashion of 54 where she , her, and I were/are the "perfect "mother.

The wooden spoon not sparing

Mothering through my hopes and desires while serving a great God is difficult yet quite simple. My flesh speaks to my womb daily wishing it were full but knowing the conviction of His hand will slap my idolatry away. The mud of other gods I have slipped in covering myself in judgment . I shall not return but my desire is to see a life outside of my other four yearns. My imaginative play continues to create games of hopscotch with sisters and baseball with brothers but my maker calls me not to pretend but pray. My body feels broken and helpless at times but HE reminds me I wasn't a mistake. I feel the wrath of jealously whispering me to abide in his truth, his time, his plan. My disobience finds me pushing the empty swing and blowing out one " Happy birthday to you, Happy birthday to you , Happy birthday dear empty womb, Happy birthday to you." I sing this while Jesus carries me and befriends my confusion, sorrow and discontent. His gentleness and promise wraps himself around my wounded flesh while recycling my faith .I am once again renewed and strengthened to mother in the midst of His will .

Shattered plastic, Roaring glass

"One in eight new mothers have post partum depression" Our number was called last year. As I return to the day of our birth, so many deaths occurred. One of them being the death of pride. I no longer had the ability to say I was okay because you weren't silent. You waited months for me to smile, laugh and accept what God blessed me and one year later I am humbled by your presence, your gift, and your fight for me to be better. You cried until I held you so I would remember what it felt like to touch , you stared at me until I would look down and kiss your forehead. Little by little you kept me going but you needed me to get well so you would be well. I remember every day praying that this day would be better and you always believed it would. It stopped raining, I stopped drowning, we began living. My dear son you will be one and I will be skin to skin holding you , laughing with you, telling you the day you were born was they day I was called to be better, to see and appreciate the fragility of living . I would never redeem our number for the sake of dismissing the pain....I would never deny the beautiful lesson and journey you brought me. I will never be able to silence suffering nor blind my eyes of it. I welcome it with a mothering gleam whispering ..Happy Birthday son, Happy birth day to us.