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Kindred Mom Podcast — Kids & Family
Kindred Mom Podcast

Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds

Latest Episodes:

What is Best for My Kids Apr 05, 2021
Show notes

Amy Mullens shares a story about learning how to trust God while her children experienced difficult things. Now you can find the Kindred Mom book, Strong, Brave, and Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, wherever books are sold. Subscribe to the Kindred Mom newsletter and receive a preview of the book today! Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

“I really don’t want to go tomorrow,” my daughter sighed.

“I know you don’t. I wish I could go in your place,” I commiserated. “You know it cannot be as bad as your first day of school when we had just moved here,” I added in an attempt to comfort.

In her eyes, I could see her mind was traveling back to that day two years ago. Only having lived in England for about a month and having changed living arrangements four times, it is little wonder those first school days felt tumultuous. Another contributing factor was this girl hadn’t yet attended a conventional school in her life. Up until that point, her education had been with one of the best teachers ever in a one-room schoolhouse that met three half days a week. It was like a beautiful little greenhouse under the umbrella of homeschooling, where children had no choice but to thrive. School all day, every day in her home culture would have been a big adjustment, but this transition summoned every ounce of bravery her nine-year-old self could muster.

“On that first day, my teacher was standing over me while I was writing a sentence. I came to the end, and she told me to put a full stop. I had no clue what she was talking about,” she said, giggling. “She looked at me like I was crazy and said, ‘You know, the little dot at the end.’ I told her that I called those periods. I don’t think that she had ever heard of that before.” My girl was now smiling at this memory that had been entirely disorienting to experience.

“You have come such a long way in the past two years,” I reassured her. “You know so much more about living in England than you did back then.”

“I am just afraid that I will cry like I ended up doing on that first day.” She looked down.

She was now eleven and starting “high school” in a new school, and she didn’t know anyone. I wished I could walk beside her and whisper brave things to her throughout the day.

She came up with a plan for saying good-bye the next day: We would get her big brother to walk with us. I would say good-bye once we got over the river bridge and he would walk her the remainder of the trip. This way, if she felt emotional after parting with me, she would have time to pull herself together before she reached school. Having attended her school, he would also better know where she needed to go. Thank God for big brothers!

When we said good-bye that morning, I did my best, but I know my voice shook.

All day long, my heart sat in my throat. I prayed for her with prayer that never ceased. Trusting God to sustain my kids when they walk through difficult things is the hardest thing my faith has ever been through.

I have always wanted what was best for my kids. Doesn’t everyone? I can remember being big-bellied and reading reviews of infant car seats, not being able to reconcile how they had all been approved as safe, but some were hundreds of dollars more than others. If I went middle-of-the-road, would my baby be ok or would I someday never be able to forgive myself for not forking over the extra money? And that was only the beginning. . .

Over the years, the calling of God upon my husband’s and my life has been in conflict with what most would deem “best for our kids.” Our littles never had a strict bedtime because pastors work a lot of nights often involving their wives. As a result, our kids learned to sleep anywhere. We always took them along for the ride and flexibility is now a strong point for all of them.

When they were little, I overheard this conversation between my boys:

“Was dad always a pastor?” the younger asked.

“No, we used to just go to church and mom and dad only had to worry about their own problems, not everyone else’s,” my firstborn candidly replied.

I have no doubt that the emotional burden of carrying the weight of others’ struggles has had an impact on my children. I hope they will grow to be the kind of people who will go on to care for and help others no matter what their vocation.

Adding a baby to our family through adoption was seen by some as a poor choice for our three biological children. That baby girl is six years younger than the youngest of them and she surely would hold us back. And you know what? Sometimes she does. Obviously, some things would be easier for our family to do without a five-year-old along. What my biological children have learned is that God designed all people to need and be a part of a family. We were called to be family to a girl who needed one. My kids have learned to accommodate their little sister when it is inconvenient because she is worth it. All people deserve a family.

Then, when our kids were 14, 12, 9, and 3, God moved and made it clear He was calling us to join a church plant in England. There are still moments when I can’t believe we made that move as a family with kids of those ages. It was unspeakably hard on them.

This past August, we got to travel back to the States for the first time in a year. On our last morning in Pennsylvania, I watched my dad pushing my girls on the swings in his backyard––the same yard I grew up in––and the guilt rolled in. This is what my kids are missing all of the time. In weak moments, I feel they are being “robbed” of time with grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins so we can foster a tiny church on the other side of the Atlantic. Countless times during the past two years of our transatlantic journey, my husband and I have questioned whether or not we were ruining our kids.

My daughter’s first day of high school went well. Another girl invited her to eat lunch together, so the danger of being alone at that most vulnerable moment was provided for by a kind-hearted soul. Prayers were answered. During the subsequent first week, my daughter made friends with a girl who had moved to England from Africa only 9 months before. My heart smiled as these girls found a connection over an uncommon shared immigrant experience.

“Do you remember, Mom, how I used to cry every night when we first moved here?” my daughter asked the other day. “I thought that I would never get over leaving our life in the U.S.”

I will never forget the pain of those tearful nights. They almost sucked every ounce of courage out of me. There were so many times my husband and I considered waving a white flag and getting on a plane.

“Now that I know I can survive a move like that, I want to travel the world sharing Jesus and helping people when I grow up,” she confidently smiled.

When I watch our children be brave, I lean hard into my God for more courage than my heart knew it could muster. I have no idea what God has planned for them, but I can see glimpses of how He uses the hard parts of this life to do what is best for my kids.

Amy and her husband are church planters in the Midlands of England. Originally from Pennsylvania, she experienced in a deep way what it means to live as a pilgrim when she adjusted to ex-pat life and settled her children into a new culture. She is addicted to seeing Jesus change people’s lives and loves nothing better than to walk with them through His Word whether that be in a small group, her writing, or over coffee. Exploring the English countryside, getting lost in a book, and catching up with an old friend are among her favorite things. You can find her at www.amymullens.com or on Instagram.

Brave Mar 29, 2021
Show notes

Jana Fraley shares a story about helping her son be brave as the new kid in school. Now you can find the Kindred Mom book, Strong, Brave, and Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, wherever books are sold. Subscribe to the Kindred Mom newsletter and receive a preview of the book today! Photo by Colin Maynard on Unsplash

I watched as my boy slowly walked over to the bell tower, shoulders hunched, eyes downcast, and there he stood all alone. I needed to get out of the drop-off lane and he was giving me a look that said “Mom, please just go.”

But my heart was breaking. I pulled out and decided to drive around again to check and see if any new friends approached him, and then twice more; by now the bell had rung and he was walking dejectedly toward his class lining up outside. I began to cry and started praying for my son; “God, please!! Bring Kade friends to help ease this transition! Could You just DO SOMETHING to make him feel like he belongs here, make him happy, well adjusted, well-liked? I need to know that my boy is enjoying his day! Lord, You are our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble (Psalm 46:1), please help my son.”

His answer to me was silence.

This went on for weeks. We had recently moved after selling our family’s cattle ranch and buying a smaller one the next county up. We faced a lot of changes that year, but it was our 10-year-old that had to deal with the hardest adjustments.

A new school with no friends was tough enough; being the lone ranch kid in the 4th grade was turning out to be excruciating. He was the only one out at recess wearing jeans instead of shorts or athletic pants, cowboy boots and not tennis shoes, a belt and buckle (a buckle that just months before he had won at the county fair and was his pride and joy). The kids weren’t mean to him, he just didn’t fit in. They’d ask Kade, “How can you run in those cowboy boots?” To which he’d answer with a shrug, “With two feet just like you, I guess.” Or, “Why do you always wear that belt and big old buckle?” His reply, “How else am I supposed to keep my pants up?” Kade didn’t change just because his school setting had changed, which at once made me proud of him but also made me nervous that he was never going to fit in at his new school.

I’d go home to my husband in tears telling him I thought we had made a huge mistake, maybe we needed to move back and let Kade return to his old school and his buddies. My poor husband didn’t know what to do with a sullen boy and a weepy wife.

I kept praying.

And God finally answered.

But He didn’t answer the way I expected or wanted Him to. God told me His plan for Kade’s life had very little to do with making sure that he was happy or well-liked and adjusted. He wasn’t as concerned with my boy being successful in academics or sports. God’s desire was to grow my little cowboy into Christlikeness, in empathy, in courage, and in contentment with where he was. God wanted to stretch and shape my son in ways that couldn’t happen if he was in a place of comfort, ease, and success. God was doing a good work in my son’s life. As his mother, I had to take my hands off and trust Him. I had to allow Kade to be brave, and I had to be brave for him.

And yet, Kade’s experience of being the new kid at a small school taught me God doesn’t grow and strengthen our kids and their faith in places of comfort and ease. As parents, we envision an ideal life for our children: lots of friends, success at school, and in various activities. We push our kids to meet a standard of perfection socially, academically, athletically, but God calls them to holiness, faith, and an abiding trust in Him.

Sometimes our children may be the lonely kid on the playground, the last one picked for the kickball game, the child that struggles in class. Because this is where God instills a sense of something much stronger than compassion into their little hearts, He gives them empathy to know what it feels like to be the one left out and struggling, to grow in a desire to seek out kids who need a friend, or encouragement in school or grace when they aren’t the best one on the team.

Within these hardships, I strive to keep an “Ultimately” type of vision. Meaning that, ultimately, in the grand scheme of things, will what they are going through matter in another day, month or year? If I truly want God’s best for their lives, I have to understand that sometimes they are not going to be comfortable, sometimes they are going to face frustrations and disappointments.

However, my job is not to try and “fix” things for them or manipulate situations to escape hard things. Instead, my job is to help them navigate those less than ideal situations and see the greater perspective of God’s will for their lives. God is still teaching me through the lives of my children. I’m so glad He is a gracious and patient God that never gives up on us. His Word tells us, “It is the Lord who goes before you. He will be with you; He will not leave you or forsake you. Do not fear or be dismayed” ( Deuteronomy 31:8). God hems our children in, going before and behind them, protecting and keeping them.

As for Kade, two years later, he is surrounded by very good friends, including some unlikely ones. He now wrestles and plays basketball. Kade has no fear when it comes to getting on the back of a bucking steer or roping calves off of a new horse, but as we watched him on the wrestling mat and the basketball court, we saw that he had acquired courage and grit in trying something new. He’s finding that it’s often the hard and scary things in life that end up being the most rewarding.

Basketball was tough at times, being the smallest kid on the team and the one with the least amount of experience; there were a few nights when he fought frustration, but he stuck it out. In the last basketball game of the season, his team was winning by quite a bit. Kade was subbed in and out of the game as usual. But, something changed as the boys came back for the second half. Suddenly, their whole objective was to get the ball to my son. Over and over again, they worked together to make sure that Kade got the ball so he could attempt to make a basket. The boys were shouting encouragement to him. All of the parents were cheering Kade on. And I was in tears.

Kade didn’t end up scoring that night, but he walked out of that gym beaming from ear to ear. He was part of a team. The boys all pounded him on the back and told him how much he had improved, how much he hustled. God surrounded my son with boys of good character and gave him a better idea of what friendship and teamwork are all about. Better yet, God demonstrated to Kade He never left his side, even at his loneliest moments. He made Kade brave; whom shall [he] fear? the Lord is the strength of [his] life; of whom shall [he] be afraid?” (Psalm 27:1)

Jana Fraley is a Wyoming ranch wife, mom, and Christian writer. When not writing, you will find her hunting and camping with her family, riding and working cattle with her husband, having deep faith conversations over coffee with her adult daughter, helping her son with 4-H projects, or cheering him on in the rodeo arena. She has a heart and passion for encouraging women in seeking an authentic and active faith in Christ. She loves journeying together with women of all ages as they discern Biblical truth, learn to apply God’s Word with a Biblical Worldview, and dive deeper in knowing what they believe. Jana is a collaborator on the recently released devotional book “Tapestry of Grace.” You can find her writing at Rustic And Redeemed or connect with her on Facebook and on Instagram.

Drawing Our Resilience From God Mar 22, 2021
Show notes

Sarah K. Butterfield shares a story about adapting well to adversity by asking God for help. Now you can find the Kindred Mom book, Strong, Brave, and Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, wherever books are sold. Subscribe to the Kindred Mom newsletter and receive a preview of the book today! Photo by Yousef Espanioly on Unsplash

This year, my boys have discovered the simple joy of flying paper airplanes. One afternoon, I walked into the dining room and found my 8-year-old and 6-year-old huddled around our laptop watching a very advanced YouTube tutorial for a plane that can fly great distances. Colored paper in hand, they followed the first steps, paused the video, then tackled the next series of complicated folds. From where I sat in the living room, I had a front-row seat to their struggle.

“What? How is he doing that? Mine won’t fold like that!” moaned my younger son.

“Wait, I think I messed up. We have to rewind and start over.”

The boys had been following these steps for about 15 minutes and they were nearing the end when they discovered a problem. I understood their frustration. My youngest melted to the floor in despair. “Nooooo,” he cried as his whole body fell face-first onto the carpet.

“Let me know if you want my help,” I offered as I sipped my tea. My oldest calmly left the living room to fetch two more pieces of paper. He looked determined as he restarted the tutorial. Meanwhile, my other son beat his fists into the rug.

After a minute or two, he pulled himself up with a great sigh and joined his big brother at the table. I smiled into my mug of tea, relieved that he was able to get a handle on his big feelings without any interference from me. A few minutes later, the boys summoned me to the table to help tuck in a corner fold.

And then they were off, zooming around the house with their paper creations.

It wasn’t always this way. My youngest son brings big emotion into whatever he does. His frustration escalates at dizzying speeds as he tries to keep up with his big brother. Many times in the past, we’ve had to come alongside him to name and validate his feelings and to walk him through his choices. I’d like to think that while he was laying on the floor, frustrated with his paper airplane, he could hear my voice echo in his head: “It’s okay. Try again or ask for help.”

We moms are given ample opportunities to develop our resilience—the ability to bounce back from difficult experiences and adapt well to adversity. Just like we develop strong “mommy arms” from carrying our babies and toddlers around, we also develop our capacity for resilience. Every time we turn to God for help in the midst of a frustrating or difficult moment with our kids, we grow more resilient.

At times, like my son, I am tempted to lie down on the floor when I mess up, or the journey of motherhood seems especially hard. But instead, I choose to remember these truths about God.

God is with me. He created me for a purpose, and He is a God of infinite chances.

For a season, raising little ones is part of my purpose. When I first became a mom, looking at my brand new baby’s little face, I was overcome with the importance of my new role. With all of my heart, I wanted to do right by him, to be the mom God wanted me to be. And how quickly I discovered what a difficult calling this is! But because I believe that my work as a mother is sacred and missional, I choose to keep moving forward, even when the road ahead feels too hard.

God didn’t call me to motherhood and then abandon me. Just as I waited until my youngest son asked for my help in building the airplane, God waits for me to turn to Him. He knows the limits of my strength, energy, and patience, and I can rely upon Him to step in when I come to Him in prayer. In the early years of motherhood, I turned to Him as a last resort. I believed the lie of self-sufficiency, of relying on one more cup of caffeine, one more nap, a few more stolen minutes to myself to make everything right. When I finally came to the end of myself and turned to God in desperate prayer, He answered me simply: “I was here all along.”

I learned to pray on the go, to become more aware of His presence in both the magic and mundane of motherhood. On days when I lost my temper, when I snapped or yelled at my boys, I would be overcome by my shortcomings and feel unworthy of being a mom. But God reminds me that His mercies are new every morning. I have the ability to ask for forgiveness at any moment and start anew.

Motherhood is a high calling, a cycle that starts over again with each new day. Though the demands of the job may change, we continue to cultivate the inner qualities required of us—selfless love, patience, and strength. When I get overwhelmed, I know I can listen for the ever-present voice of God saying, “It’s okay. I’m right here. Try again, or ask for help.”

And I lean on the strength only He provides.

Sarah K. Butterfield is the author of “Around the Clock Mom: Make the Most of Your God-Given Time.” She has a heart for empowering women to grow in their faith and be intentional with their time. She and her husband and two boys live in San Diego, where she loves the first sip of coffee, getting lost in a book, and overindulging in ice cream. You can follow her writing and check out the free resources available for download on her website, sarahkbutterfield.com.

Be Strong and Courageous Mar 15, 2021
Show notes

Lisa Witcher shares a story about learning to be strong and courageous in the process of becoming an empty nester. Now you can find the Kindred Mom book, Strong, Brave, and Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, wherever books are sold. Subscribe to the Kindred Mom newsletter and receive a preview of the book today! Photo by Veri Ivanova on Unsplash

Mesmerized by the marvel of watching my son’s beating heart on the echocardiogram, I overlooked the sign that clearly stated we were not to video the echocardiogram screen. I whipped out my phone to record the inner workings of his heart. For weeks his heart had been racing abnormally, causing him more consternation than the Chemical Engineering classes he routinely aces. I am sure he is fine, but the science will give him confidence that he is.

“Mother—what are you doing?” he asked incredulously, with a condescending air; I am always Mother when I am in trouble.

“This is so cool! Look at—” I began, but before I could finish, he pointed to the sign that read, “Do not video.”

Oops.

The tsk in his face said more than his words. I disappoint him so often these days.

The days of him cuddling up beneath my chin or wrapping his arms around my neck and rubbing the ends of my hair between his fingers lay beyond my reach. My son is now nearing his twenty-first birthday, and his domineering, alpha-male behavior inserts itself often in our conversations, which strain against courtesy and more closely resemble tolerance. Now, his six-foot, five-inch frame sometimes bristles when I reach in for a hug.

We sit in the front seats of his car after the appointment. The rain trickles heavily in wide ribbons down his windshield as he finally blurts out these words, “I can’t be everything to you and Dad, Mother.” Aaah, the full M-word again. Taking a deep breath, I make a conscious decision to guard my emotions.

I have expected this conversation. The mother’s heart inside of me told me months ago he was suffocating beneath the weight of grief—his and ours.

Four years earlier, we lost his older sister just one month before he began his sophomore year of high school. The red-headed, fiery soul who held his every secret, who conspired with him on ways to avoid chores, who had guided and chided (and occasionally ignored) him for his whole life left this world after a drunk driver struck her black VW Bug in a head-on collision on our twenty-third wedding anniversary. She and two of her friends, who had just attended a music festival, were on their way home when the mid-size SUV crossed the yellow lines just seven miles from our home, critically injuring her passengers and crushing our girl.

After the accident, his daddy held him in the Intensive Care Unit, looked him in the eye and said, “You can’t shut down on us.” But since then, we have not delved into the anger and pain of losing such a large part of us.

His freshman year of college was shadowed by a mama who needed to touch base frequently. Just 75 miles away from home, he was neither out of easy reach nor a victim of intense hovering, but I often needed to check that he was okay. Respectful and courteous, his responses reflected his maturing masculinity; sometimes I received full sentences, and other times, only one-syllable answers. However, in the months leading up to his doctor’s appointment, his texts became more brief and less timely. Soon, I stopped texting questions and just sent emojis—less complicated, right? Easier to respond, right? Less intrusive, right? Still, he would wait seven long days before responding at all.

So yes, I knew his words were coming.

This is natural; I remind myself. His sister pulled from me when she went to college. I pulled away from my own parents at that age, giving my landline number to my sister—to be shared only if something happened to our grandparents. If we do our jobs correctly, our children will seek their own way, their independence. However, his plea this gray February afternoon resides more deeply within him than just a natural angst to be free.

“I know; I have been waiting to hear this,” My quiet answer allows him to keep talking.

By the grace of God alone, I know better than to defend his father and me. I know better than to justify anything we have done in the twenty-plus years leading up to this one moment in the front seat of a black Hyundai Sonata in the near-freezing rain. I know I just have to listen.

So, I listen to his grievances. Some are legitimate, but some words ring false, the truth hidden by a hurt he can’t overcome and one I can’t take away.

He feels trapped by his college choice, pressed against a future he isn’t sure he wants, persecuted by individuals who were supposed to be friends, and disappointed in his parents. It’s always easier to assume our perpetual pain is someone’s fault.

I decline to debate with him, forfeiting my opportunity to be “right” so he will know I hear him. At each perceived cry for help, we talk about options and resources, for him and for us as his parents, the remaining three souls in our little clan.

In the end, I walk away from my six-foot-five little boy, letting him drive west on the rain-slicked streets with all his possible choices nestled next to him in the seat I just vacated. I don’t know if my sweet boy will shut us out completely or take the wrestling match of words with him. As helpless as I felt when my daughter was dying, the danger I sense in this moment with my son threatens to steal my breath.

And so, I pray. The door to my own car hasn’t shut before my soul whispers urgently to the God “who is with us, even to the end of the age” (Matthew 28:20).

The verse I chose for him long ago is Joshua 1:9: “Have I not commanded you, ‘Be strong and courageous; the Lord, your God will be with you wherever you go.’” His independent will, his acute intelligence, his devotion to learning all led me to the words be strong and courageous.

As I pray this verse over him again—”Be with him, God. Make him strong and courageous”—I know that our children are gifts shared with us, not given. My son belongs to God, just as his sister does.

My plea is also my charge: I must be strong; I must be courageous; I must let God lead that boy wherever he will go.

Second only to asking our heavenly Father to make my daughter whole again, either on earth or in heaven, my prayer for my son is the most difficult prayer I’ve ever had to heed.

Wife, mother and public educator Lisa Witcher learns about faith and grief by writing. Of all the titles she has held, mama is the one most dear to her. She and her husband have raised two beautiful, intelligent, giving children and enjoy high school athletics and pouring into the lives of students. They are loyal and true to their Oklahoma State Cowboys and the New York Yankees. Connect with Lisa on Instagram.

Stretch? None For Me, Thank You Mar 08, 2021
Show notes

Wemi Omotosho shares a story about resilience, and the uncomfortable experience of navigating new circumstances. Now you can find the Kindred Mom book, Strong, Brave, and Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, wherever books are sold. Subscribe to the Kindred Mom newsletter and receive a preview of the book today! Photo by Roksolana Zasiadko on Unsplash

Her big, dark-brown eyes welled up and her lower lip trembled as fat tears slid down her cheeks. I sat in mystified silence for a few seconds before asking, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she replied, sniffing back tears unsuccessfully.

“Then why are you crying?” I asked, trying not to let my frustration bleed into my voice.

“I don’t know.” She was making a valiant attempt not to cry, but tears covered her red cheeks faster than she could wipe them away.

As the days and weeks passed, I learned that this interaction was par for the course during homework time in my house—specifically math homework with my 5-year-old daughter.

Though my daughter was normally precocious with a love for learning that made me proud, math had the ability to reduce her to a scared, weepy puddle. The transformation from Miss Fiercely Independent with a go-getter attitude to a teary child with slumped shoulders was almost unbelievable. I dreaded homework time. Many sessions ended with me playing the role of Shouty Mom quickly followed by Guilty Mom.

Until this point, my daughter’s learning journey had been fairly bump-free. Reading and writing were her favorite things to do and she’d happily spend all day making lists and writing cards. Words came easily to her; numbers did not, which I get.

Then I noticed that not only was she put off by the questions she didn’t know, but she was also reluctant to answer questions that she did know. Cue the tears whenever she didn’t understand a question or simply feared she might get it wrong. Her class teacher made an observation that stuck in my head: “She’s doing great, but she just needs some resilience in not being afraid to answer questions even if she may get them wrong.”

Resilience. The ability to roll with the punches. To get up and try things again even if it looks hard or you’ve already failed at it once.

It’s something I’ve tried to instill in both of my children from an early age. I let them know that sometimes things won’t work the way we want them to, but that’s okay—we can try again.

My daughter was being stretched by math, and she clearly wasn’t a fan. She needed to develop resilience so that she could take the risk to raise her hand in class, asking and answering questions.

My refrain throughout the year became variations of “It’s okay, don’t be scared just because it looks hard” and “Don’t give up. Even if your answer is wrong, it’s okay. That’s why we are doing this, so you can learn how to do it.” I sought for teaching moments outside of the dreaded “M word” to reinforce this principle and seized opportunities even during the things she enjoyed.

***

Don’t be scared.

My own words reverberated in my mind and I wondered when I would take my own advice. Here I was, always pushing my kids to not only try new things, but also not to give up when the going gets tough—yet I had spent pretty much the entire year fighting change.

After the quiet and monotony of five months in lockdown, life started ramping up and returning to the familiar busyness. I once again had to settle into my roles of juggling work and home, with school runs, evenings spent doing homework, or driving my eldest to swimming lessons, and staying on top of school events and commitments.

On top of this, my role at work had changed to one that demanded more of me. It required me to step outside my comfort zone and not only learn new things but take an active leadership role. Although the professional side of me saw the opportunities for growth buried in this change, I resisted as if my life depended on it.

Having started this year of global unrest with a challenging medical diagnosis that had only one prescription—rest, and lots of it—I was desperate to cling to the old and familiar. I simply did not feel I had the headspace to take on the responsibility of the job change being offered. But when it came down to it, management’s decision was final, and I had to make the transition over to a new team to replace a colleague who was leaving.

During the first few weeks of my new role, I mourned the loss of my old position—one that I not only enjoyed but could do almost on autopilot. It had been perfect for a year in which I needed to have lots of rest, visit the hospital and doctor’s offices, and look after (sometimes homeschool) two children single-handedly while my frontline-working husband labored for long hours at the hospital every day.

I had more than a few tearful moments during those first weeks. I mourned the loss of the old and comfortable and very reluctantly started to step into the new. I was being stretched and didn’t much care for it.

Added to the mix, my husband and I decided to put our 9-year-old son forward for some entrance examinations as part of his preparation for secondary school. This meant we needed to prepare him for the exams, which included scores of past papers, test booklets, and online resources covering different topics.

In a season when I already felt overwhelmed, the added pressure of coordinating my son’s extracurricular studies led me to frequent grumbly, under-breath murmurings and wrinkled brows. So many things had battered my defenses, leaving them paper-thin and ineffective. I was cranky, tired, and constantly felt on edge. Any time I thought there was about to be a semblance of normality, something would shoot out of nowhere and knock everything off-kilter again. I felt like I was in continual transition. Whether it was from illness to healing, from an old role to a new one, or from homeschooling to in-person school and possibly back again, I was fed up.

As I went through the concepts of number bonds with my daughter, I saw the parallels between us—I am also very reluctant to drink from the unpalatable cup that has been placed before me.

Looking back, I know I didn’t handle the bumps of the year with the kind of grace I want to have. More often than not in this season, I want to throw a tantrum and bury myself under the covers, even though I know that God may be using all the bumps to stretch me in readiness for whatever the future may hold—not unlike what we are doing with our 9-year-old.

However, instead of being flexible and open to change like my son has been, I haven’t transitioned well. Choosing instead to be dragged out of complacency into the stretch, I’ve entered my new season with tension and pushback.

In the midst of this, I’m encouraged that God does not abandon me in the stretch. Rather, He reassures with: “Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand” (Isaiah 41:10, NIV).

Perhaps the fact that I haven’t given up yet is resilience.

Resilience, I’m learning, is worked out in the stretch and in real-time on those days when I lack the grace and strength.

I see this in my daughter when she willingly joins her online math tuition class every Saturday morning and when she dares to give an answer to a question asked by her teacher.

I continue to show up and give my best every day in my roles at work and as a mom, just like my daughter does with her schoolwork. I may never fully willingly embrace the stretch and the growing pains that come with it, but perhaps just continuing to put one foot in front of the other is enough. Enough to traverse the rocky terrains of life and enough to teach my children to face challenges head-on and not give up.

Wemi Omotosho, PhD is a London-based writer who wears many hats as a scientist, entrepreneur, wife, and mom. She also serves as a worship team vocalist, bible study writer, and coordinator for the publicity department in her church. She is constantly awed by God’s love for her despite her mess. Her writings have appeared in (in)courage, Iridescent, and Awake Our Hearts. She shares her reflections and poems at reflectionsinthemess.com. You can also connect with Wemi on Instagram and Twitter.

The Long Haul Mar 03, 2021
Show notes

Lindsey Cornett shares a story about persevering through ongoing challenges. Now you can find the Kindred Mom book, Strong, Brave, and Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, wherever books are sold. Subscribe to the Kindred Mom newsletter and receive a preview of the book today! Photo by MIO ITO on Unsplash.

What is it with the lights in hospitals and doctors’ offices? I hate how they buzz almost imperceptibly, casting a yellowish haze across the room, making me feel like I need to blink constantly to keep things clear and in focus.

On this particular day, the haze falls over my baby boy, barely one year old. He’s wearing a hospital gown with a cartoon tiger print. They try to soften the blow in these moments by covering these tiny gowns in patterns you might otherwise find on a pricey muslin swaddle blanket.

During our pre-op appointment a few days before, I sat in the waiting room at the ENT and watched another family come in, their daughter in a wheelchair with many visible medical needs and accompanying equipment. Their family unit for this visit was mom, dad, daughter, and nurse. I kept my own baby boy occupied and tried not to stare or eavesdrop, but still noticed the way each adult dutifully took turns attending to her needs as they waited for their appointment.

I was struck by how minor my boy’s procedure would be, Lord willing. Here was a problem (chronic ear infections) and its clear solution (tubes). So few parenting struggles have such obvious boundaries, such delineated beginnings and ends, such clear next steps.

Now, we have arrived to the day of surgery, those oppressive lights hanging over my boy waiting for anesthesia. Not much later, I buckle a drowsy but otherwise happy boy into his car seat and we are on our way back home for snuggles and naps.

***

The surprising gift of COVID has been the uncovery of true contentment, not because everything is good or even because I’ve learned to want my current circumstances more than anything else. Instead, when everything shut down in mid-March 2020, each day presented me with only one option: Stay home.

I stopped considering if and when I might go “back to work” and what job I would do and whether the money would adequately compensate for childcare—a monologue that had been running in the back of my mind almost endlessly since I quit my full-time job in 2015. In 2020, I ceased feeling like I wasn’t getting my money’s worth out of our museum and zoo membership. Without decision fatigue and without wondering about the best use of my time, I learned to be satisfied. I learned to settle in for the long haul, to accept what I had been handed.

So much of motherhood exists in the follow-up appointments. The handful of firsts and lasts are dwarfed by the sheer volume of the again and again and agains. Meals. Potty breaks. Read alouds. Sibling squabbles and apologies. Reminders about choosing love, being brave, making mistakes, and trying again. “You already had a snack.” “Your birthday is still three months away.” “You may not speak to me like that.” “I love you.” “I love you.” “I love you.”

Pastor and theologian Eugene Peterson once borrowed a phrase from Nietsche to describe the Christian faith as “a long obedience in the same direction.” And my, if that isn’t also a good description of motherhood. It is long. It is often marked by sameness. But we keep showing up. Faithful and present, even if nothing ever changes. And isn’t that what Jesus says to us? “I love you, even if nothing ever changes. I am faithful.”

And yet, I have hope for change and transformation, an extension of my hope in Christ who is making all things new. My middle child asks for a snack ten million times a day but I keep repeating myself because I am bound and determined that one day, he will learn that afternoon snack is at 3:00. (He will, right? Right?)

***

It turns out that my son’s ear tube surgery didn’t fix his chronic ear infections after all.
“For some reason some children’s ears just don’t like this particular kind of tube,” the ENT explained. Let’s try again with a different kind.”

So, less than six months after that first surgery, my son was back under those oppressive medical lights for a second set of ear tubes and an adenoidectomy to boot. (“My, those were very big adenoids for such a little boy. I’m glad we did this,” the surgeon remarked afterwards.)

He hasn’t had another ear infection since, which I couldn’t have imagined during his babyhood. And yet, six or seven years later, I have learned to expect follow-up, slow movement in the right direction without much clear resolution. We keep showing up to weekly speech therapy sessions. His dentist recently told me he’s a mouth breather and his tonsils are swollen and, “Huh, unusual that they didn’t remove the tonsils along with the adenoids.”

In motherhood as in life, I prefer forward progress. I am learning that while time may heal many things, some things just linger. I am learning to be content with the long wait and lack of resolution.

Around here, we’re in it for the long haul.

Lindsey Cornett is a writer and editor who lives in Indianapolis with her scientist husband and three young kids. If her kids aren’t demanding to be held, she’s probably carrying a pen, a book, or a coffee. In both writing and life, she hopes to provide hope and solidarity to any other women who find themselves afraid to make mistakes. She is a co-founder of The Drafting Desk, an email newsletter of soulful encouragement for recovering perfectionists. Her writing has been featured at Coffee + Crumbs, Motherly, and (in)courage. You can always find her on Instagram or learn more about her writing and editing services at www.lindseycornett.com.

Moving Into a New Season Feb 28, 2021
Show notes

Emily Sue Allen shares a story about navigating both grief and joy when entering a new season. Now you can find the Kindred Mom book, Strong, Brave, and Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, wherever books are sold. Subscribe to the Kindred Mom newsletter and receive a preview of the book today! Photo by Sourav Sur on Unsplash.

He’s driving. I’m looking out the window, my eyes skipping across snow-dusted fields. I’m thinking about things I have wanted to say out loud for months now, but haven’t found the words. I stay quiet because I know if the words come, the tears will, too, and I’m not ready for them.

Our seven kids are in the rows behind us, spaced out through our 12-passenger van. One plays DJ with daddy’s phone, landing on a popular movie soundtrack with an assortment of her favorite musicians and an upbeat tempo to accompany our forward motion.

We are all together on our way to a donut shop (a favorite Saturday-morning pastime), then headed to visit grandparents we haven’t seen for a long time. We now live just a half-hour away, but a particular virus has kept us from regular time together.

We’ve been in an especially challenging season for nearly three years now, and I’m ready for a new season—out of winter, into spring. Out of crisis, into healing. Out of struggle, into smoother days. I feel rather desperate for it, but I also feel stuck. Sad. Not really sure how to let go of the past and make space for the future—my former certainties and optimism smeared blurry by the present grief I struggle to articulate.

Four months ago, we moved to a new area, eager to gain space for our large family after being sardined into a 1500 square foot house for over a decade. We welcomed baby after baby into that house, reconfiguring sleeping arrangements a dozen different times to make it work. The day we drove away, I ordered my kids to stand in front of the fireplace and took a ridiculous picture of all of them wearing stick-on mustaches so I could smile my way out the door for the last time and keep the tears to a limited few.
I was really sad to leave, but our lovely new home promised a quiet neighborhood with more than enough space for our family. Room to spread out. Room to breathe. I wanted to start fresh, welcome joy, and leave grief behind so it couldn’t wreck this new beautiful experience. After a long season of struggle and healing from a near death experience, I wanted a hard break from the heavy stuff.

The moving truck arrived at our doorstep after a long journey across the state, containing all our material possessions, including an Ikea bookshelf we knew ahead of time might not survive the trip. Having been shuffled around our old house a number of times, the structural integrity of the shelves had been compromised and a gentle nudge could rock the corner joints slightly off 90 degrees. I knew for sure the pieces would not fit back together if they were deliberately dismantled before loading, so the unit went on the truck as a whole piece—squares stuffed with odds and ends and boxes piled on top. It wasn’t until it was being carried off the truck in our new driveway that the boards started pulling apart. Within seconds, the once-whole and useful bookshelf toppled over the side of the loading ramp and broke into dozens of scattered pieces in the driveway.

The past few years have changed me in similar ways. The life I once knew is now unrecognizable—broken apart from pressure, change, and events I didn’t see coming. I can’t put the pieces back together like they were. No one asked me ahead of time if I was ready for an epic season of struggle. I did not consent to this. I did not ask for stormy weather.

But the weather isn’t up to me.

***

“Mama, can we snuggle and look at pictures on your phone?” My five year old has discovered I have thousands of photos from past seasons of life, photos of his older siblings when they were young and events he doesn’t remember. He is thrilled by these glimpses into the past.

“Sure, buddy, we can do that for a few minutes.” He grabs the couch throw-blanket to spread over our legs and scoots in close to my side where he’ll be able to see the screen as I scroll through photos.

“I want to see when I was in your belly,” he quips with a smile and expectant, raised eyebrows. He’s seen the photo before, but it left an impression and he continues to request it.

I find the right folder and swipe to the only images I have of the ridiculous, torpedo-shaped belly I snapped in the mirror a few days before his arrival. I knew then, as I know now, time is fleeting, and even when photos show the messy, uncomfortable moments of our lives, it is priceless to have them captured.

He giggles about how big my belly was. I smile at the memory and also feel the pang of sorrow for the reality that those days are gone. I know now, we will have no more babies. We can’t. Our family is in a new season, and there is no way I can have another pregnancy without significant health risk and personal trauma. I’m not saying I want or need another baby—after all we have seven healthy kids—but I am sad this chapter is closed.

“That’s a big baby in there!” I say with a conflicted smile and contrived enthusiasm, suppressing the lump in my throat.

I would never say my child-bearing years have been easy. My body stretched beyond reasonable limits and I scrambled and scraped my way through the baby and toddler years, like every mom does. But even though it was really hard, the season of having babies was so full of good things for me: joy, purpose, growth, and self-discovery. Now, grief and joy are wrestling things out, and I mostly feel helpless, unable to stop the passing of time, and also grateful time keeps moving despite really big mom-heart feelings.

I squeeze him close and kiss the side of his head, well aware this moment is fleeting, too.

***

We’re minutes away from the donut shop, and I still can’t seem to spit out what I’m trying to say to my husband as he drives. I’ve kept quiet for several minutes.

“Are you ok?” he asks.

Yes. No. I don’t know. There are so many words I want to say. I pause a minute and take a deep breath.

“I feel so eager to move forward into a new season—to leave behind the struggles of the past few years and embrace the new adventure we’re on, but I still feel horribly…painfully…sad. I just want to speed ahead through the grief, to get it over with, but…”

Tears slide down my cheeks and my voice trails off.

Wide-open fields pass by, and I see, maybe for the first time, there is space for everything I’m feeling. Joy. Sorrow. Hope. Uncertainty. I’ve said goodbye to a season of life that was full of good things, and the one ahead…there is no reason it can’t be full of new and different good things.

These mixed-up emotions can hang together. I can give grief some room as I welcome Jesus’ comfort and healing in the present; as I long for a renewed sense of strength and vision for brighter tomorrows.
Grief is hard, but I am growing to see it is necessary for healing, necessary for moving forward.

There is space for grief, and there is space for hope.

The seasons themselves are beyond my control. The weather is what the weather is, and there is no way to pin down the weatherman and guarantee spring temperatures before they’re due. I have to let the weather be what is today, and if it’s wet and cold, give myself permission to sit near the fire with a cup of tea. When the sun comes out, I’ll be sure to step out in it with my eyes closed and my bare face turned up. Moving into a new season means embracing where I am, internal mess and all.

My husband stretches his hand open on the center console, and I put mine in it.

I’m grateful we’re in this together.

Emily Sue Allen is the founder and visionary behind KindredMom.com, an online community and podcast dedicated to helping women find joy and purpose in motherhood. Emily is passionate about living a deeply nourished life and celebrating the beauty of ordinary moments. She is forever marked by the rescue and redemption Jesus Christ has accomplished in her life. Emily is a featured contributor in Strong, Brave & Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds, a collaborative volume of essays written to encourage moms in the weeds of parenting kids at home, a member of Hope*writers, and an ongoing devotional writer for Joyful Life Magazine. She lives with her husband and seven kids—three girls and four boys—in the Pacific Northwest. Emily’s website is emilysueallen.com. Subscribe to her newsletter “Flowers, Children & Other Lovely Things” at emilysueallen.substack.com and find her on Instagram.

All is Calm, All is Bright…Or Not Nov 24, 2020
Show notes

I have a backpack at church tonight instead of my usual diaper bag. Inside it are only a Ziploc with Pull-Ups and wipes and a small Kiddie-brand fire extinguisher.

I brought a freaking fire extinguisher to church. (Can I use “freaking” and “church” in the same sentence? Oh well.)

It seems bananas to me, but not as wild as the fact that, in a sanctuary full of people, they hand out crayons all around, including one to each of my four small children, except all the crayons are white and have wicks and they light them all on fire.

I love Christmas Eve candlelight services.

Or, rather, I did back before it became the most ridiculous worst-case scenario I find myself in every single year.

At my church, Christmas Eve services go like this: Walk into the foyer from the sub-zero cold. Wait for glasses to defog. Greet as many people coming out of the earlier service as you can find. Hand out Christmas cards or bags of caramel corn, if you managed to get as far as cards or caramel corn this year. Mosey into the sanctuary and find a seat as the Spotify Christmas playlist fades and the pianist begins, signaling that we have about 90 seconds before the service starts for real. After the welcome, we pray, read the Christmas story from Luke 2, and watch someone light all five Advent candles.

If this sounds a little rote as I tell it now, it may help to know I’m increasingly drawn to the repetition of this one sacred night.

At the end of all this, we get instructions to “take one and pass it down”—underneath the leftmost chair in each row sits a box of candles, each tucked into individual plastic holders. The pastor reminds us to always tip the unlit candle to the lit one (to prevent hot wax drips) and to hold it upright for a minute after we blow it out at the end. Then someone turns off all the lights. (Typically, this responsibility falls to my husband, the ridiculously good-looking sound guy whose board is right in front of the bank of light switches.) For a few moments, the only light comes from the five Advent candles. The pastor lights his little candle and starts walking down the center aisle as people on both sides dip their (unlit!) candles to his, then pass the flames down their rows. After he’s started lighting candles down the aisle, we start singing “Silent Night” a capella. By the second verse, all two hundred (or so) candles are lit, and they stay that way for the remaining verses. The sanctuary has a warm glow as we sing together, our faces shining in the firelight.

“Silent night, holy night

All is calm, all is bright…”

At the end of the song, we blow out our candles, wait with them upright until the wax hardens just enough, then pass the boxes again, this time from right to left, depositing our candles and replacing them under the leftmost chair of each row for the next service. We head out of the sanctuary, linger for a while in the foyer—long enough for autostarted cars to warm, if only a little—talking to friends who attended this service and the ones coming for the next one (I always pick the middle of the three services so I can at least try to catch everyone), pass out more cards and caramel corn (maybe). Then we brave the cold and drive home to continue whatever prep or merrymaking we have planned for the night before Christmas.

At least this is how it used to go, back before I started bringing a fire extinguisher in my backpack. I’m sure the service feels much the same to the people around me, but it stresses me all the way out. I have four children, ages 3, 5, 7, and 9. Lately, my strategy for Christmas Eve service is less about fellowship and more about tactical maneuvering. We arrive early but miss the foyer chat (I didn’t make cards or Christmas treats, anyhow) so we can take the seats closest to the door, because I need to be as close as possible to the sound board (and other parent of this weird little circus, who mans the faders and knobs). These are everyone’s favorite seats—the first to fill at every service, hence my early arrival—and I don’t want to monopolize them, but I’m aware I may need to exit very quickly with no notice.

I nod a nervous hello to my husband then plant myself in the third seat in. The preschoolers sit on either side of me and the elementary girls sit on either side of them, taking up the five best seats in the house. I give them Very Serious Instructions regarding behavior in this service and Even More Serious Instructions about the coming candle situation. “Most of all, you have to listen VERY CAREFULLY,” I tell them, hoping to cover all contingencies. I pop my backpack under my seat, unzipping it proactively and double-checking to make sure my hand knows how to find the extinguisher in the emergency that may well be imminent. I’m anxious and I’m hot. The wispy hairs that have flown out of my messy bun are sticking to my face and neck in an itchy, annoying way. (Oh yeah! I definitely meant to fix my hair and put on some mascara and change out of yoga pants! Shoot!)

Ready or not, the piano starts to play as my husband turns down the playlist coming from his production computer. We’re doing this, I guess.

The next half-hour is filled with open-flame-related anxiety and whispered reminders to stop stomping on the floor with winter boots, stop facing the wall, stop talking (or at least talk quieter), and the like. We sing songs. My kids are familiar with them and thus sing with great gusto and fair-to-moderate pitch. I’m trying (failing) to keep myself regulated as we get closer to the moment when four little candles with four menacing flames will be held tightly in eight unpredictable hands.

Finally, it’s fire time. My oldest is in the leftmost position, so she gets the box from under her chair and hands it down. I question for the one-millionth time the wisdom of telling the 3- and 5-year-olds, “Yeah, I think you guys might be old enough to hold candles this year,” while also congratulating my foresight to braid all three girls’ hair to decrease the chances of catastrophe. I triple-check the fire extinguisher, this time propping it upright inside the backpack, which I’ve moved to my seat. Pastor Eric gets to the last row and Jenna solemnly tips her unlit candle to his.

We have ignition.

I help the little two and then glance around, paranoid, passing out instructions as loudly as I can while still staying below the ambient volume of “Silent Night” sung a capella.

About the middle of the third verse, I see 5-year-old Brian getting a little too curious about his candle. I whisper with increasing volume and panic, “Away from your face, Bud! Away from your face! BRIAN!” But he’s mesmerized. His head bows in slow motion toward his flame, then jerks back suddenly. I see in the golden candlelight a little curl of smoke disappearing from above his forehead. He lets go of the candle with his right hand (managing to keep it upright in his left) and rubs his noggin, looking at me with both surprise and offense. I smell the distinctive aroma of singed hair, but there is no persisting fire and, just like that, the song is done. We blow out candles (“Gently! Keep them upright for a minute!”) and put them away. I zip my bright-red Kiddie extinguisher back into my bag and put it on my back, grabbing the hands of each of my preschoolers.

As we exit the sanctuary, I let go of Brian’s hand to high-five my husband. “Another year we didn’t burn the church down!” I exclaim. “I didn’t even have to use this,” I point to my backpack. “And Brian’s hair was only a tiny bit singed!” At this point, all the anxiety I’ve been holding inside bubbles out in maniacal laughter. My husband gives me a thumbs up, I grab my son’s hand, and we walk through the foyer, drawing weird looks as I crazy-laugh. I didn’t remember to warm up the van ahead of time, so we march out to a cold vehicle and, after buckling the little ones in, I sit in the driver’s seat and take a deep breath.

All is calm. All is bright. Well, the “bright” part is over, but at least I finally have something like “calm.” The ambient volume is anything but peaceful noise but less anxiety-inducing—no sense of impending doom, no need to put out a literal fire, and the chilly car is oddly relieving.

In an unexpectedly serene moment of clarity, the weight of the service hits me: God came as a baby. Emmanuel. God with us. He came to be with us in my minivan amid a chorus of “can’t we please light some more candles and sing again? For Christmas?” He came to be with us in the sanctuary now smelling of my son’s burnt hair. He came to be with this weary mama as I put my pyromaniac children to bed alone on the night before Christmas while Dad stays at church through the final service.

As I take a moment to connect with the God who opted to enter this world full of noise and chaos and brokenness and beauty, there is calm. I can’t rightfully say I am calm, but I can enter His calm in this moment where He is with me.

Later, once all four kids are down (with a melatonin assist to counteract their fire-fueled mania crossed with anticipation of presents), I light a candle on my dresser and sit in my room. All is calm, all is bright. Recalling again the first Christmas, I wonder how calm it actually was. Birth is not typically described as “calm,” especially with livestock and shepherds hanging around. Mary—a first-time mother far from home, was learning to nurse and care for a newborn without the benefit of her own mother’s presence. These are not ingredients I would choose for a night of beatific serenity. My mind swirls with the possible scenarios Mary and Joseph endured that night; none of them includes unbroken calm.

Perhaps my desire for Christmas-related tranquility is overrated. Maybe the Christmas carols have it overstated. “The little Lord Jesus, no crying He made”? Uh…sure. Shoot, if there was a fire in the stable to keep Mary and a new, vernix-covered squishy Jesus warm, it’s altogether possible she had a little bit of stress over the possibility of straw catching on fire.

But even if all was not calm that starlit night, He came. God was there—the Prince of Peace Himself—and that was enough.

Robin Chapman is a part-time writer, editor, and birth photographer and a full-time imperfect mama, wife, Jesus follower, and normalizer of failure. She’s trying to learn how to do this motherhood thing in a way that doesn’t land the whole family in intensive therapy. She has a heart for helping other mamas buried in the little years with hope, humor, and solidarity. You can find her hiding out in the bathroom with an iced dirty chai, writing and editing and making spreadsheets for Kindred Mom where she is a cheerleader for mamas, or online looking for grace in her mundane and weird life. She lives in Fairbanks, Alaska with her four delightful (crazy) kids—some homeschooled, some public schooled, some too young for school at all—and her ridiculously good looking husband, Andrew. Connect with her on Facebook, Instagram, and her blog.

The Map of My Heart Nov 19, 2020
Show notes

I sat, perched in my seat, silently struggling to pay attention to the sermon the pastor was preaching. Instead, my eyes flitted around the room. I wondered if this was where we belonged.

We were visiting another new church for the first time. Finding a church after moving was proving to be one of my least favorite things to do. I missed the familiar. Saying goodbye to those we’d known and loved well still stung. After our recent move across the country, over 1,200 miles away from the home we had known for the previous 13 years, we hoped a place to worship and serve would help us begin to feel at home.

This small church reminded me of the one we attended back in Texas. As my eyes wandered, I noticed there were several families like ours with young children. We had an 18-month-old son and another little boy on the way at that time. I looked at the other moms around the room. Would we end up being friends?

A few weeks later, we decided it was a place we should stay and get connected. I kept looking at those other moms, smiling, pretty, and friendly enough. But they all seemed to know each other so well already. Their kids already played together, grinning and giggling with one another. I learned that most of these families were founding members of this young church that had started just a few years prior. It had been a long time since I was the new person at a church. I was sure these ladies didn’t really need my friendship. But I was equally sure I did need theirs. I made up my mind to take a chance, to jump in with both feet and see where I landed.

One of those smiling moms came up to me after church the next Sunday to introduce herself and welcome us. She told me about a local petting zoo she thought my little boy would like. Later that week, I looked her up on Facebook and sent her a message. Hesitantly, I asked if she and her kids would like to go with us to the place she had recommended. She said yes, and she even invited a few other moms from church too.

I walked up to the entrance, excited and nervous about spending time with these ladies. From the first smiles and greetings, I could tell how genuinely kind and caring they were. In the warm sunshine, the smell of hay and animals filled the air. Our children scampered from chickens to goats, sheep, and other farm animals. Some eagerly wanting to touch them, others wanting to keep their distance from these strange and noisy creatures. Over packed lunches, we chatted as we watched our little ones on the playgrounds. We took pictures. The conversations flowed so easily that day. To me, it felt more like a normal get together than a first meeting.

There were four moms and about a dozen kids, on that first outing. And from there we kept getting together…more moms, and more kids! We gathered at the park for play dates and for prayer. We met for story time at the library. We savored picnics and ice cream. We united during Bible studies and moms’ groups. We shared life for two short years.

Too quickly another job opportunity came up for my husband, and we moved back across the country…again! Heartbroken, I left the wonderful friends I’d worked hard to make in this short time.

Back in Texas, in a completely different city, starting over again proved equally daunting. We didn’t know a single person. After moving twice in less than three years, would I have the strength to care about people that much again? Or would it be better to keep to myself and not let my heart get invested this time?

The scene was the same, in a different place. I sat in churches trying to listen while looking around and wondering. This time was even harder than the last. Our now three-year-old son missed the friends he knew and loved. It broke my mama’s heart to see his nervous face each week, and for him to refuse to go to children’s church.

Finally, one Sunday, he walked into a room where a handful of other children his age were playing. I sat in the service with my husband praying he might enjoy class this time. In the bulletin, I noticed a list of openings for singers and musicians on the worship team. Being a lifelong pianist and singer, I have always been part of worship at church and hoped this might be a great opportunity to use my musical skills to meet new people and get involved.

When we picked up our little boy, for the first time in weeks, he was smiling! At each church we visited previously I asked him, “Did you have fun?” Until then it had been, “No, I don’t know anybody.” That Sunday when I asked him the same question, his answer was finally different. “Mommy, I had fun. I played with a new friend. Her name is Vivian.” I thought to myself that I needed to meet Vivian’s mom. A few weeks later, I met Vivian’s mom and shared the story of her sweet daughter’s kindness. Her friendliness is a big reason why we decided our church was the right place for us. Both mom and daughter are precious friends to us to this day.

Now we have a whole new community of friends in yet another place on the map. We meet friends at church, at mom’s groups, Bible studies, and many times just by striking up a conversation at the park. I don’t know how long our current location will be our home, or how many more places we will go on this journey. But I know wherever we go, I will meet people I want to get to know and love.

I have left and will continue to leave pieces of my heart all over the map. Each place I have lived, from my childhood home, and during the 20 years of my married life, every city and state, holds a little piece of it. My life is sweeter and richer because of the people I have met along this road of life. I cherish the friendships and the memories I carry from each one. In some form or another, we will always be connected. There is room for everyone, always space for one more friend, because the map of my heart reaches far and wide.

Angela Sensenig is a follower of Jesus Christ, a wife, and mother of two little boys (and one little dog). She is a former teacher now embracing her role as a stay at home mom. She finds joy singing and playing the piano, riding horses, and running. Through the changing seasons of life and family, it is her goal to practice contentment and gratitude every day. She is so thankful to God for grace, His unfailing love, and for the gift of motherhood. She loves being a mom so much that she started a blog in hopes to share encouragement about life through God’s Word and her reflections on raising children. She is passionate about learning and sharing Biblical truths that will enrich and refresh the hearts of mothers everywhere. You can find more of her writing on her blog. You can also follow her on Facebook, Instagram, and Thankful Mommy on Pinterest.

More than Apple Pie Nov 17, 2020
Show notes

God help me, I wish I’d never started that pie.

If I hadn’t been convinced my worth could be found and sifted together with flour and sugar, I might have avoided breaking my pie plate and my son’s heart.

One day back in those early years, I decided a pie was the ultimate way to prove my legitimacy as a wife and mama. My 4-year-old son wanted to help me with it. He loved helping me with everything. His little hands planted themselves on the pages of my open cookbook, his sweet head with its cloud of curls moving back and forth, looking at the recipe and glossy picture. Silently, he moved around the small kitchen table we’d inherited from Grammee and Grampee, picking things up and laying them back in place reverently—the rolling pin, the pastry blender, a spatula.

In theory, I loved his desire to help. On the other hand, if it meant an extra-messy kitchen, “help” gave me hives.

That pie was beautiful in its pan. Cinnamony apples peeked through strips of pie dough woven together in a crisscross pattern and bound with crimped edges. My son was beautiful too. I still see his big eyes in that sweet face with the kitchen window framing the pretty fall day behind him when he asked, “Can I put it in the oven, Mama?”

I tried to make him understand: The pie was heavy. The oven was hot.

He lifted the glass pan. His sweet little hands gripped the sides cautiously. Suddenly, it was on the floor—shards of glass, cored and sliced Granny Smith apples, brown sugar, and ruined pastry lattice mired together in one heaping wreck.

The big, brown eyes of my son looked up at me—looking for love and understanding, wanting to feel safe. All I could see was my carefully crafted ego lying there, shattered on the floor.

I lost it.

I did not kneel down and comfort my son. I yelled and broke his heart into pieces too.

***

I believe that event still affects him to this day, especially the way he perceives his intelligence, gifts, and interactions. I think this is where a lot of the voices in his head came from—the ones that make “I’m sorry” burst forth from his lips so often.

The opportunity I missed with my son still haunts me—waking me up in the wee hours to mourn.

I tried to treat my emotional issues like ingredients that could be baked and made palatable. In the cracked glass dish of my soul, I brought to marriage and motherhood lies, violence, omissions, and misunderstandings. As much as I tried to hide it, the distorted ways I perceived the world came oozing through my perfectly crimped crust.

***

Back then, a great apple pie represented my wifehood. I wanted legitimacy at any cost—so badly I could taste it. I thought “it” was about pie. I poured my identity into it along with the lemon juice and sugar and cinnamon, and I bowed to it as an idol. No amount of apples or butter can tell me who I am or who God calls me to be for my family. These days, I rely on the Bible for identity and parenting recipes.

I wish I could share a story of redemption, the kind beginning with a heartwarming anecdote: A couple of years later, when faced with another, similar situation, I handled it so much better by… I can’t. Mistakes and redemption don’t always come in equal ratios. Only God can unwind some of the trauma we impose on those we love most.

What I can say is my mentality has been redeemed: I am not a perfect apple pie; I am a child of the heavenly Father and have been blessed by Him with these children. In His eternal sight, all of us—my children and me—are worth more than any cooked or crushed apple pie.

Jay Jones is a writer, a mama, and an audio editor for Kindred Mom. God has changed each goal Jay has ever had, chiefly those concerning her relationships and writing. If it is part of her life, she wants it to please Him. Self-taught in many ways, she is always looking to make connections and find ways to improve her brain, her blog, and her brood (ages 2 to 13 years). Married since 2004 to her husband, Taylor, she’s been tied to her college sweetheart for nearly a quarter-century. Together, they raise their 4 children in the Chicago suburbs, where they enjoy pursuing creativity in the midst of the daily grind. Whether it’s writing screenplays, gardening, or gaming, Jay’s family is usually cultivating something. As a mama to both teens and toddlers, Jay is passionate about instilling deep, identity-forming truths in her children. Her other interests include: encouraging others, reading when she can, and learning what she can about where the mind-brain-body-reality intersects with Biblical perspective. You can find some of her musings on her blog and on Instagram.

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