The Postpartum Funk

It’s been a long four months. It’s hard to explain to someone who doesn’t have any kids, sometimes even harder to explain to those who are years outside of first having kids. I got in a funk this time after having a baby. I’ve had three babies, three totally different experiences in parenthood. For some reason, this time has left me walking in circles, harder to move forward & more interested in looking behind.

Having three boys has been an isolating and enlightening experience. I was drinking my coffee this morning while my son Asa tried to drive a car across my face. My four-month old spit up all over his clothes right after I dressed him. My oldest woke up with dried blood on his face due to the bloody nose he experienced in the middle of the night (which he also tried to clean up himself).

I’m living the dream here, believe it or not. And you probably don’t really believe me. I don’t always believe me, either. I sacrifice thousands of minutes to these little boys, and they dictate nearly every moment up until bedtime. Not every woman gets this, and yet I do. Complaining about it seems futile most days.

In this funk, this place where I’m a martyr for my children, giving up even the early morning hours so I can sleep rather than read the Good News, falling asleep at night thinking the day could not have been any worse, wondering where my life is going when all I ever seem to do is cater to the needs of my children…my heart gets hardened. My thirst is not quenched, my anger is easy to surface, and I am losing a battle that’s already been won.

Being a mom becomes even less about being a mom when I am smacked in the face with the honest-to-goodness truth:  Jesus is the prize. I am not a martyr for my sons. They don’t need me to give up all of my time and all of my energy and all of my good looks and joys. They need me to love Jesus. They need me to wake up with my knees on the ground praying over my own soul; seeking first the Kingdom of Heaven and then rocking the core of my day with their needs. They don’t want my futile attempts at discipline when I am grasping at straws of sanity. They want my sane understanding and calm reasoning. But more than that, most days they don’t even know they want those things. Their minds are filled with imagination and dreams and wild ambitions of climbing the trees in our backyard. They don’t realize the magnitude of Jesus. That’s why I need to.

I’ve been dancing in circles for a few weeks, avoiding my visions and dreams because I’ve been consuming my time with the needs of my people. Needs that I love to meet. Needs that will be met. But they need me to need Jesus. They need me to seek the prize and to guide them to the King. Giving up myself so I can seemingly give more…it’s a dangerous thing.

Stick with me over the next few weeks while I try to navigate this post-three baby phase I’m in. I’m committing to coming here to write it out, find Jesus, and get real. Because I’ve got visions and dreams. And I want to see what Jesus can really do with them.

In Boldness

Yesterday I sat with my Bible and journal in my lap feeling feeble. When I’m away from the Word, it hinders me from seeing Truth. Every day I spend elsewhere is like ignoring a close friend; it rattles the relationship. And when I do return, I flip through the pages with a sense of foreign touch. What is this Book, really?

So I sat there. Partly expecting a moment of revelation, I thought maybe I would be hit with a moment of “knowing”. That the place to read in this precious text would simply float into my mind as though God Himself put it there. But no such thing happened. No revelation. I stared at my Bible tabs and flipped to Habbakuk. I read the first chapter, thought on it. But I wasn’t present. The holiness of my Father’s words were not monumental, and I surely wasn’t impressed. I felt my stomach hit the floor, and I felt it again and again:  I feel like I’m failing You, Papa. 

It’s been a long time. I wish I could convincingly blame my lackluster approach to Jesus on having three kids, but I don’t want it to be that simple, and I don’t want that to be my out. I don’t want an out to exist when it comes to Jesus. I have simply traded Truth for lies, and the greatest liar of all has been feeding me poison over and over, tricking me in my vulnerability in the chaos of three children. I’m kicking him to the curb today, in case you wanted to know.

So I sat there, skimming through a small book of the Bible, waiting on God to just show up for me already. I had made the effort! I opened the Word. I read some of it. But I was still clouded, not living fully alive in Truth, and trying to push away His loving embrace. This is how it is though, right? God doesn’t show up every time, right? I shouldn’t need to be radically changed everyday by the same thing, right? Right?

Do you think that? I have. Yesterday, I did. I wasn’t radically transformed at the moment because I didn’t want to be. I wanted to stay in the comfort of lukewarm belief and mild love. I didn’t care to be lifted off the ground and shifted by grace again and again and again. But I should be. The Truth of the gospel should radically change me every single day. It should hit me in the face and in the heart that I deserve to pay for my sin, but that I am pardoned by a loving, merciful God. It should rock me to the core that I am deeply loved and deeply known. It should be remembered, and rightfully so, that it is God who is always showing up and us who are always ignoring His peaceful heart.

I got bold in my prayer and asked Him to speak, because I needed to be knocked off my feet by Truth. I need the wind in my sails to be shifted and the beating in my chest to strengthen. I needed my Papa to show me His power so I could defeat the grave again.

Where you search for Me, you will always find Me. But you have to actually look for me. Don’t just haphazardly enter My presence and expect transformation. Don’t reservedly open the Word and expect Truth to be piercing and loud in your sin. I have never left. I have never stopped. But you have. You get in the way of glory and grace. My love is never ceasing, yet you behave as though I am reluctant. I am a jealous God. I want you. I love you. Your faults may seem detrimental, but don’t you realize that I already perfected you? My blood is on you, and I declare you Mine. Take My words to the world, not your own. Your words do nothing. My words move mountains. Watch Me.

And I watched Him. My eyes are fixed on You, Papa, for I can now see mountains move.

Revitalized

I’m excited to reveal the new look for Soul Strings! My husband helped create the logo (and when you have a graphic designer at your disposal, you take advantage of that). I wanted something new and fresh, a revitalization of sorts. Life has changed so much recently that I felt I needed something fresh to show that.

My three year old has grown up so much in the past three months since Finn was born that I almost cry when I recognize the obvious changes in his personality. My 20 month old is crazy, wild, and loud, and I love him to bits for it. And baby Finn is happy as a clam, all the time. I tell you what, God was not joking around when He gave us such a sweet boy. His smiles melt me into a million pieces.

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Evan’s business is busy and exciting right now, and we are grateful for it. Feeling some financial freedom has allowed us to renovate our kitchen a bit, and I can’t wait for it to be finished. The Lord is faithful, and He provides.

I was also featured this week on my friend Chris’s blog Millennial Evangelical. He asked me to write a piece about the joys of parenthood as a mom in my early 20s. You know I’m all about that! Check out the blog here, and be sure to read some more of his stuff. I love following his work!

I hope you’re as excited as I am about what’s to come for Soul Strings! Hopefully I’ll be back here sooner than you think.

Here In My Holy Place

I wish I could tell you how many times I have returned here after a long day, sometimes in the middle of the chaos, waiting for the words to just spill out like rain drops and scatter beautifully. Too many to count. Too many moments where I’ve accepted a tiny dose of failure only because words wouldn’t come how I want. Too honest, too raw, too motherhood-oriented.

I’ve tried to enter the holy place I have here with Jesus, but I’m having a hard time just getting through the door. I am a mom to three boys. It means by the time I arrive here, I am dragging behind me the tantrum my middle child just threw, the explosive diaper I just changed, the yelling I just did. I am trying to drag through the door the instances that I’ve made a mistake or the times that make me exhausted. I can’t get to this holy place unless I leave it all at the door.

And that’s not easy. There isn’t a how-to on that one, on how to really feel worthy when I feel like I’m carrying everybody else with me. Dragging. Dragging.

The door isn’t wide enough.

It’s wide enough for just me. Because this is my holy place. The place where I get to leave the junk at the door and kneel, knowing that my worth isn’t found in the tantrums, diapers, obedience. My value isn’t found in the behavior of children or measured by the number of dishes I can wash in a day. It isn’t in my calling as a mom, as a woman, as a human. It’s here, in this holy place. This holy place where a holy God only sees His little girl. This place where He twirls me around and holds me tight. This place where nothing, not even the stuff I dragged with me, can keep me from Him.

This holy place. Where the sun shines and cleanses, the air flows and frees, the rain washes away.

I’m leaving it all at the door, Jesus. You are worthy; I am worthy. You are valuable; I am valuable. You are holy. I am holy.

In this holy place.

“I Can Do Hard Things”

The other night we ventured to an ice cream stand with the boys. I had a rough day, being assaulted left and right by doubt and quiet whispers of inadequacy as I tried to take care of my kids. They’re the worst days, are they not? Nothing went terribly wrong, and I wasn’t hoarse from yelling “No!” a million times. It was the little things, the little mistakes or stumbles that prompted this irritating sense of “who am I kidding?” to pump into my mind. So a sweet and fattening dairy treat seemed absolutely necessary. Continue reading ““I Can Do Hard Things””

The Story of Five

It’s shocking when the first month of your newborn baby’s life is over. It is a hard season, one that feels eternal, but is so short. And here we have a 6 week old who sleeps better than my older two ever did and nestled right into our life as though he’s always been here. He came into this world slower than I was expecting, a labor that lasted longer than any other I’ve had. But he was so perfect. And fat. 8 lb 14 oz of rolls and cheeks. Our Finn. Continue reading “The Story of Five”

Forty Weeks

Forty weeks ago I became pregnant. I cried when I found out because, in all honesty, I didn’t feel ready for another baby. I wasn’t ready to give my body up yet again within four years. But things change, like when the scariness of it weathers away and baby kicks become persistent, the miracle of a baby becomes a whole lot of joy and lot less fear. Continue reading “Forty Weeks”