A Mother's Prayer

My typical "mother's prayer" sounds something like this: "Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help!"

In some moments there is just not time for deeply reflective, reverently crafted verbiage. And God doesn't seem to mind my post-it note approach to prayer. He sends miracles anyway. Those miracles may take a few days to show up, they may come in an hour. But he must love frazzled, borderline irrational mothers, because they come.

A Voice

It was one of those days. The kind that left me wondering what I had to offer to the world. All day I was given examples of powerful women: the New York Times bestselling author, the blogger who is changing the world, the woman who has conquered two chemical addictions and an eating disorder and who found God along the way, the olympian and a half dozen examples of the slim, the sassy and the professional.

This aught to have been motivating. But, for the moment, all I could see was feeding, clothing and cleaning up after my own little mass of humanity ... forever. (Sandlot pronunciation please For-Ev-Er!) I felt utterly lost.

And then I was blessed with a flashback. Several months ago, as I was polishing my stories and looking for feedback, I was speaking with a friend who has quite a bit of experience with literary organizations, editors, etc. She walked me through some fabulous information and then leaned in and said "You have a voice. Most writers feel they are trespassing in the world of literature. They feel they aren't 'real' writers. But they are wrong. Bethany, I have heard you speak, I have read your writing. I have heard your church program narrations and You Have A Voice."

I left her home with those words ringing in my brain. Once home, I flipped to an empty page in a journal and filled it with the words "I HAVE A VOICE." No one had ever said that to me before.

Flash forward to my deep, gray slump of a day. I had not shaken the world - that I know of - but I had called an old friend who had been on my mind. I had born testimony to my children of something I knew to be true. So, the day was not a complete waste. And then came the epiphany. (I hope when I see the movie of my life they will add a soundtrack of harps and heavenly choirs to those moments.)

I realized that I do have a voice, and that voice is backed up by the experiences God has hand-picked for me and for the person He needs me to be. Apparently God didn't need another Olympian when He created me. He needed a quirky idealist with a passion for words, dancing and red shoes. He needed a yard-saling, white socks with black pants wearing, health nut. He needed Me. He needs me just how I am and just where I am. And however He needs me to build His Kingdom I have the perfect set of talents and abilities for the job. I do have a voice. And it is one that will shake the eternities. It may never be heard on the Today Show, but I am realizing that the true measure of a voice looks very different than billboard charts and best-seller lists.

The Third Woodcutter

There is a famous old story about two woodcutters. The first one chops away at his trees incessantly, never stopping to sharpen his ax. He feels that such a break would simply waste valuable tree cutting time. The second, takes the time to sharpen his ax, and despite the "lost" time, is able to chop more effectively than the first woodcutter.

Is it just me, or is this story incomplete?

In my world there is a third woodcutter. Like the second, he takes time to sharpen his ax. But every once in a while, he also takes time to sharpen the woodcutter. I mean how long can a person do nothing but bang their ax against a tree? No matter how sharp that ax is, eventually, you are going to have one bored/burned-out woodcutter. So woodcutter #3 takes time to read a book, write a blog, walk into the city just to feel the concrete under his boots. He knows the worth of a Wendy's value meal and a steamer from Starbucks.

The other woodcutters shake their heads at their friend's foolishness as they fell trees right and left. Now, truth be told, woodcutter #3 probably fells fewer trees than his friends, but he is the only one who is smiling.

Somehow, this seems easier for a woodcutter than it does for me. After all, the woodcutter can write a blog without the trees whining and yelling about their un-met, needs. While he is at Wendy's, his trees don't un-chop themselves. Mine do. It is a hard thing to take time for a re-charge when your sink is overflowing with dishes and emitting an aroma that reminds you vaguely of Tuesday night's tacos.

Okay, this is my challenge to myself. I need to get out. I mean really out. And no, just now, going grocery shopping alone is not going to cut it. I anticipate an adventure. I'll be sure to tell you all about it.

Motherhood

Where have I been for the last few months? My feverish love of writing got temporarily sidelined by my feverish love of the holidays and having my children home.

I have had a thought rattling around in my brain for a while that I have been anxious to write about. Here it is: I love being a mother. I adore it. It is the best job in the entire world.

So, why is it that when some well meaning individual (invariably an empty-nester) tells me "This is the best time of your life. I hope you are enjoying it." I have to fight the urge to administer a solid right hook to the jaw? I distinctly remember the first time someone said those words to me. I was bouncing two fussy children around the church foyer when a sweet older sister came up to me, leaned heavily on her walker, and said "This is the very best time in your life. I hope you know that." I blame what happened next on the fact that I hadn't slept through the night in approximately two years. I narrowed my eyes, smiled (or rather revealed my bared teeth) and walked off without a word. I stalked the halls till I found my husband, thrust the screaming children at him and said "If this is as good as it gets, I quit."

Fast forward four years. Child #2 had just completely reverted in his potty training. He would find secret places in the house to pee (under the bed, behind doors, in the closet etc.) places which I would only stumble across by luck ... if stepping in a puddle of pee with a bare foot is luck. My house smelled like a zoo. Child #3 had begun a fascination with toilet water. When she wasn't drinking it, she was pouring it across the house via cup or soaking teddy bear. On this day, even child #1 had, had two accidents. I was rotating the children through the bath-tub when my husband came home, leaned against the bathroom doorway and said, "You know, that speaker in conference last month said that we were going to miss this. "I am sending that man a urine scented candle," I said, deathly serious. "And a spray bottle full of toilet water and vomit."

Now, I adore this time of life. I have just enough experience to have some wisdom and just enough youth to have all my faculties. I am needed by the people I love most. I have arms thrown around my neck every morning and I have all my children piled on my lap for stories at night. I can fix everything with a kiss, a band-aid, and a cookie. This time of life is is amazing. Yet, you never see other bleary eyed young mothers slapping each other on the back and saying "Woo Hoo, this is the best!"

I think that young parents in the trenches know what many empty-nesters have forgotten; that these rare and glorious moments are purchased at the highest possible price. No doubt, when I look back on these early years with a well rested mind, in a clean, quiet house, from the comfort of greater financial stability, I too will reminisce about the "best" time of my life. But, when I encounter the wrinkled forehead and dark-circled eyes of a young mother I hope I will acknowledge the immense price she is paying before I tell her - as we all need to be told - "These are some of the best times of your life. I hope you are taking the time to enjoy them."

Well, enough writing, I am going to go enjoy my children.