Faith & Encouragement

For the month of June, Kindred Mom is covering the following topics: Combating Loneliness and Nutrition Challenges as well as some of our Core Themes. 

If you haven’t listened yet, we’d love for you to check out the new Kindred Mom Podcast and please leave us a review on iTunes! Also, read about our Summer Connection Groups and think about how you might reach out to mamas near you for intentional time together this summer!

His face crumpled when he realized he wasn’t going to the birthday party with his brother.

“But I never get invited to birthday parties,” he sniffed. With a start, I realized that he was right. It was April, and he hadn’t been invited to any school birthday parties this year. That old, familiar ache rose up in my chest. It had not bothered me much as a child, as my few friends were always enough for me. But as a mom, that ache grew in my heart for years. The pinching loneliness of not having friends, of not being invited, of being left out.

He wailed in my arms while I tried to hold my own broken pieces together. For his sake.

I often revisit those years, in my memories. After the babies were born, I went back to work at my church, part-time. Never there long enough to become friends with my coworkers, but always feeling the load of the work at home, keeping me tied down even on my free days. Never invited to the women’s group, at least not personally. Always rushing at work to get things done, leaving little time for lunchtime chatter. Never being brave enough to initiate anything of my own. Always feeling like an invisible soul, dutifully doing my work without being noticed. Looking back, it’s obvious to me that I was not as invisible as I felt, but nevertheless, the sense that I was slipping through life unseen was overwhelming.

My son and I moved over to the stairway to talk. Sitting in a shaft of light from the afternoon sun, I shared with him what had changed in my life.

(photo by hill smiley photography)

“When I am feeling lonely, I start looking around for someone else who looks lonely. There is always someone else who feels the same way. I start talking to them and I feel less lonely because I know that I am helping someone else.”

For an introvert, this act goes against everything in my nature. But even introverts get lonely for true connection. The best thing I have ever done was join the women’s Bible study on Wednesday mornings at my church. It has been a stretch for me, and it has been very hard to get out the door some weeks.

The women attending the group were all ones I wanted to get to know, but early on it felt like I had an impossible barrier to hurdle. While I knew most of their children from my work as the Children’s Ministry Director, I didn’t know anything about my peers, the other moms. The thought of getting to know them was daunting, because friendship doesn’t form in a single conversation.

Later, it was hard to go because some weeks parenting and working is overwhelming and I couldn’t even keep up with making dinner, never mind going to Bible study. It was those days that being a group leader was a hidden blessing: I had to go. They expected me.

Three years later, I have developed friendships. It took many conversations and trips to McDonalds after Bible study, but they are there. I am no longer lonely.

“See,” I told my boy, “when we look for others to help, we start to feel better. It’s hard to ask someone if they want to play, but when you are brave enough to do that, you might make a true friend in the process.”

He nodded, then hopped up to go play again. My heart still hurt for him, but I know this will be better for him in the long run. Better to be the one initiating friendships and spreading love, because that is a skill worth cultivating.

Being able to see the beauty in others is a Christ-like quality that brings a little of His healing into our world, a little of His light into the darkness. He created that lonely ache in our hearts because it drives us into communion with others and communion with Him. If we let it, that ache of loneliness can become a catalyst for building relationships, both as moms and as kids.

For the month of June, Kindred Mom is covering the following topics: Combating Loneliness and Nutrition Challenges as well as some of our Core Themes. The deadline to submit essays for the upcoming July Topics (Family Culture & Connection, Simplicity, and Infertility & Secondary Infertility) is less than a week away (June 10th)! 

If you haven’t listened yet, we’d love for you to check out the new Kindred Mom Podcast and please leave us a review on iTunes! 

I’m in the deepest of sleep when I sense her in my room before I hear her. My four-year-old stands next to my pillow, in tears, explaining that she had a bad dream. She is wondering if she can please sleep in my bed?

We don’t have any hard and fast rules about this scenario- sometimes I say yes and sometimes I scoot them back to bed. This time though, this time maybe I was too tired to really think it through or maybe I just sensed that we needed each other, me as much as her.

Our king size bed is as big as can be, but she snuggles right up next to me and that’s how we fall asleep that night, two in the morning, side by side.

~

We’re playing outside, afternoon sun, the four of us, me pretending the clock isn’t ticking closer and closer to the dinner hour and I still haven’t a clue about what we’ll eat. The air is too perfect, the sun too kind, the breeze so gentle. They’re running around wild and free, neighborhood noises filling our ears, sidewalk chalk staining our fingertips.

My oldest had been playing down at a friends’ house and here she is, running up to me, tears streaming down her face.

I do the quick scan up and down to see if there’s blood anywhere–are you hurt? are you okay? is there blood? no? Okay then–and I begin to assess the true damage, this time to her heart, a much more difficult wound to mend. A friend said an unkind thing and my girl is still young enough to first run to me in her pain. I don’t want her to ever outgrow this instinct.

I pull her in close and get a little bit of the scenario of what happened. We sit on the couch, our legs wrapped up in each other, her nearly on my lap but not quite, and I begin to whisper into her ear all of the things I know about her that are true. You are brave, my dear one. You are strong. You are loved. You are kind. You are creative. You are adventurous and friendly and silly to boot.

Her heart unwinds, reminded of who she is, and off she scampers to play once again.

~

It’s been a long day, a hard one, and I just need to be done. I need them to put themselves to bed, quietly and kindly without a single whine. This, of course, is not how it goes.

On this day when I am at my end, tired and sad and a little bit scared, they become the very most difficult versions of themselves and I have no love to give.

I kiss them and go downstairs to the living room hardly ten seconds after saying goodnight and I hear them jumping off their beds. They are laughing and bouncing and having a full-on party not ten seconds after they promised me they would go to sleep.

Oh, no way. Not in my house.

Mama’s done.

I march upstairs, fling open their door and the look on my face must have stirred sheer terror because they launch themselves into their bed, covers over their head, trembling. I don’t remember everything I said, but I definitely growled “I’m so serious” about five times.

I close the door but stand by it for a few extra seconds to make sure they don’t start messing around again and hear the sisters whisper.

“Brennan?” calls out the four-year-old, “What just happened?”

The six-year-old responds: “Ellie, that wasn’t our mom. That was the mean mom. I don’t like that one.”

“Me either!”

And as tired as I am, I just cannot end it this way. I go in and crawl into their bed, pull them in close and say “Babies. Mommy is so sorry. Sometimes I’m so stressed and I’m so tired and I take it out on you. That’s not fair. Can we begin again tomorrow?”

They forgive me and hug me, ain’t no thing, because children are expert forgivers and I kiss their foreheads and they fall asleep- peacefully, this time.

~

 So much of mothering feels like it’s done in the secret places where no one else sees. We do it anyway– we gather them up close, whisper love and courage when they need it, love the hardest we know how and apologize when we miss the mark.

For these few stories of mine, I bet you have a thousand that haven’t been captured of you doing what you needed to do in that moment for your babies and whispering love and nailing this mothering thing. For these stories right here, I could tell of twenty others when I failed completely.

But as mamas, we love them always. As mamas, we do what we need to again and again and again even when we’re empty because that’s what love does. It’s easy to remember the ways we feel like we’ve missed the mark, but let’s choose to see the tiny moments of love that add up to build a life. Let’s see what we do well and let me remind you that you, my dear, are nailing this mothering thing.

Even when it doesn’t feel like it and even when you don’t get credit, you are doing a good job and they are so, so loved. I promise.

 Sarah Sandifer is a mama to three darling and rambunctious little girls. She is married to her college sweetheart who now serves as an Army Chaplain and is taking them on quite the grand adventure. Sarah’s great loves are the Colorado mountains, dark chocolate and coffee, though she would be a total mess without the grace of Jesus. You can find her thoughts on life, motherhood, and marriage at SarahSandifer.com  and she’s also on Instagram @SarahSandifer.

For the month of May, Kindred Mom is covering the following topics: Feeling Inadequate, Sleep-Rest-and-Rejuvenation, and Mental Health Awareness Month. We hope you’ll return to read the wonderful essays we have to share with you and cheer on the courageous mamas who have shared them. Join us on the Kindred Mom Facebook Group to connect with our community. 

The sweat is streaming down my back but the sun is welcoming, not angry. My backpack is chafing a bit due to the sunburn I have achieved throughout the day. There is a satisfaction that comes with the hard work of exercising, of putting to use muscles which haven’t seen action for a while. I plod along, one foot in front of the other longing for the rest that lay ahead. My husband’s pocket spits out hip hop lyrics from Hamilton; his phone broadcasting the soundtrack. This keeps a rhythm, helps me move forward. We have already hiked two and a half miles up to a hidden waterfall, a wonderful reward for the hard work of going up. Now we have a mile and half remaining and my spirit is refreshed from the vigor of the excursion.

On this particular day, we purposed to do a family hike. Sitting at the kitchen table, five miles round trip seemed a bit more doable. Presently, one child lags as she looks for lizards, one is red-faced and forlorn and another is quickly losing the pep in his step. I’m seriously re-thinking our kitchen-table confidence.

I look at my 5 year old son and realize, he’s not going to make it.

“You’ve got this buddy!”

“You’ve done so well today! I’m so proud of you!”

I assess the unfolding events and realize that no amount of encouragement will get him to continue step, step, stepping down to the bottom of the canyon where we’ve parked our car. He’s done. The last thing I want to do is carry another human for the remaining mile, but with our littlest baby in the ergo on daddy, it’s my back that’s available. I hand daddy the backpack I’ve been carrying and take my son by the arms. “Jump!” I say as I swing him up on my back. My hands find each other behind me, under his little bottom. I tell myself to settle in because this little one won’t be hiking again today.

At first, it’s easy. Heading downhill and already sweaty, there isn’t much I need to worry about. But even the easy 50 pounds of a 5 year old will test a mother’s back. He and I sway and bob as we head down the mountain, and I feel his muscles grow slack; a sure sign he’s fallen asleep. My commitment must remain strong. With a sleeping child on my back, I cannot give up. He has no thought of my strength or ability to endure; only his own exhaustion. I smile a bit as I consider his total dependence on the strength of my back.

~

My back. It aches sometimes. It’s usually tense in one spot or another, from nursing, scrubbing, holding, dish-doing, or bending over to pick up errant toys. I usually don’t think about the aches. They seem a package deal with motherhood. But now, as I bear the weight of my boy, I think about my back and the strength it wields.

Strength to hold me up.
Strength to give good, strong hugs.
Strength to bring laundry upstairs or down.
Strength to bend and scoop up a crying baby in the night.
Strength to walk for miles and miles in a marathon.
Strength to labor and deliver 4 babies.
Strength to weep for the babies I miscarried.
Strength to let go and lean into my husband for his strength.
Strength to sit next to a sick child and make sure they fall asleep.
Strength to walk for miles through London, baby in the Ergo, blisters forming, persevering because it’s so worth it.
Strength to piggy back my children up to their beds because it’s fun.

We are nearing the parking area and I realize I’ve walked for nearly a mile and my little guy is still asleep on my back. My husband yells back to me, “Wow, Supermom, how are you doing?” I chuckle and say “I’m fine” because I really I am. Am I tired? YES! Am I sweatier than before? Also, yes! Do I regret that we took this hike, or that it was ultimately up to me to help my son reach the destination? Not for one second.

This is what motherhood comes down to. When we reach the travailing parts of the hike, we don’t sit in the dusty dirt and the hot sun and give up. We find a grit and resolve within us to draw up the feeble ones and carry them along with us, and we keep going. My back is accustomed to this task. My back is strong, like my love. I am strong; stronger than I ever imagined I would be. Motherhood can do that.

Mama, you are strong too.

You have been tested through pregnancy and birth. You have survived sleepless nights. You have surfaced after nursing through growth spurts. You have endured the gauntlet of toddler taming. You have been scoffed at and criticized and undermined and proselytized with every bit of “helpful” advice under the sun, and you have been found capable. With every burden you’ve borne on your back, you have prevailed.

You are strong. Resilient. Trust that strength. And while you’re at it, swing one of your kiddos onto your strong back today and laugh together at the fun of it.

 Lynne lives in Los Angeles with her family. She pursues excellence in letting it go, letting messy happen, and letting motherhood be fun. You can find her on Instagram and Twitter.