Mommy-Wins

Dear Friend,

Being a mom is a tough job. We flounder so often. Everyone disagrees strongly about every move you make. It can feel so hard to know how to walk forward one day after another. 

Rarely, our months of blood, sweat, and tears pay off when our child takes that first step, or utters the first word. But maybe your friend's child of the same age isn’t walking or talking. So as elated as you may be, and as long as you've waited for a moment to be elated about, you might keep it in to yourself. It can feel like we are only allowed to complain or criticize around each other.

But we need to celebrate. Never before has so much energy been poured into results like, "now she only holds on with ONE hand while she takes steps, independent walking feels right around the corner!" or "he took a nap today!" It can just be risky to utter these accomplishments out loud, for fear of creating jealousy.

I had been struggling for months around a certain parenting desire I had. I looked all around at how other moms were handling the same dilemma, and the conflict did not seem to be ending in a way I was hoping for in our own family. I felt so discouraged, like a bad conclusion was inevitable for this trial.

But you took a risk. You told me that you had found a good end to the trial. It required, what seemed to me to be unimaginable patience and resolve. But somehow you'd done it. 

Honestly, my first reaction to your success was deeper discouragement. Almost a rock bottom. I thought I could never have what you'd found. I realized how deep and how real my hopelessness truly was. 

But somewhere, deep below the surface, deep below the fear of failure, a little tiny spark ignited a new hope. Without my realizing it, that spark grew into a tiny flicker and gradually a flame that kicked me into a new gear. From there came a fresh wave of patience and resolve. And before I knew it, months had passed and I had endured. Now I am finding that same good end. 

I love my happy ending. And as it has snuck up on me, I'm shocked to hold it in my hands. I feel a burst of gratitude that I get to grasp this thing that seemed so unattainable, this realization I did not believe I had the character strength to achieve. 

I am at this point because you let me witness your success. You gave me permission to strive for something better.

I know it is tricky to have successes as a mom, but I hope you'll never hold back your accomplishments, or your child's amazing skills. I hope you'll feel free to brag to me. Your mommy-wins are such a blessing in life. 

Thank you.

Love,

Zoe

"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same." 

~Marianne Williamson

Regeneration Trees #4

[This is a fourth in a photo series exploring human trafficking through the imagery of trees. For the previous images, click here.]

Flame flashed bright darkness, yielding barren isolation, that was wrapped around with some small and fragile hope, and then . . . 

. . . looking at a light that was broken, whose shade is rusted all around, I slip slightly and see light enter the top of my view finder. Chilly with dawn air, I was out to photograph a door with peeling paint. A door aged, unused, reworked over and over, but still an opening, still accessible, still available. I sought out an image of hope. Instead, I found something worth hoping for. More than a glimmer of possibility, the sun rose up and burst its light on those branches. Yes. Some lights go out. Some trees get cut down.  And. And some Light shines forth like new day. Some Life overcomes. Some hope testifies to things we can not see in the darkness. True things. Lovely things. Powerful things. 

Regeneration Trees #3

Previously in this series of Regeneration Trees, I have seen bright, flashy darkness; and I have seen barrenness opening itself to something slightly less dark; and then I saw this. 

This was a tree who could not stand the winds of a hurricane. It was broken, beaten, and bowed down with its upper branches touching the ground. It lay like that for some time. Bowed down, to what? The weight of its branches were too much, its bowed-down-ness had to be cut free. The sharpness of the blade that sliced its trunk and branches are evident in the splinters fraying from the base. A clean straight line that looks like death, it looks like an end, it looks like it has lost.  It is not just bowed down, it is taken. All but the very baseness of this tree is taken. A hint of the bright, flashy darkness is fallen beside it, the orange flame remains, not forgotten.


And wrapped around, a new root. So small, so insignificant by comparison. Wrapping all around. Reaching up. Reaching out. Taken down, emptied out, and wrapped around. New life springs forth. New hope extends itself, just barely above the line of death. Splinters of defeat are paralleled by twigs of hope, weak, small, fragile hope. It has a great trunk to overcome, the growing will not be without obstacles. It will not be without barriers. But it will be. Life will be again. It will be new. It will be renewed.


“A shoot will come up from the stump of Jesse; from his roots a Branch will bear fruit. The Spirit of the LORD will rest on him…” Isaiah 11: 1-2

Regeneration Trees #2

I recently shared the first in a series I'm calling "Regeneration Trees." More walks have revealed more images and more reflections. Here is image number two:

Not exclusive to victims of human trafficking, when we feel broken, we often feel incredibly isolated. I think of a young girl kidnapped from her home. Separated from her family. Subjected to a life that buries her in shame. She feels stripped of happiness. She feels robbed of support and comfort. The sky feels grey and ominous. Her heart feels barren and numb. 

The very strong ones can shift their perspective oh, so slightly. In our barrenness, our hopelessness, our isolation, sometimes we can sense that the cloudy, grey, ominous sky might have patches that are not quite so thick and dark. Not quite silver linings. Not quite hope. Just a little less grey. Even if we don't quite have the strength to really reach towards hope, we might tilt just enough so that we are open to it, should it deign to reign on us.