Soul Care for Moms

Invited Into Friendship
June 30, 2017 In Faith & Encouragement Soul Care for Moms No Comment

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!

I thought I was fine. I had friends. I was married. We had two little kids. I felt settled living where I was, but incredibly lonesome as well. Our family had been at Bible College in Sydney, Australia for two years already and going into our third year, I was quietly confident that I would get through this year as I had done the last couple of years—gritting my teeth, pushing through, depending on friends a little—but mostly just enduring. My dearest friend had just left the college, leaving a huge void in my life, and as I mourned the loss of our close friendship, I knew the year was sure to be a different one.

At the start of a new school year, I was curious to meet the new families who would be joining us at the school. I recognized the nervousness on their faces. I was nervous too. Nervous that I might not make any new friends from this new crop of people.

On the day of the picnic to welcome incoming families, I scoped the scene. There were some people already chatting with new friends. Kids were running in every direction on the play equipment, and I thought my baby might like the swings. A beautiful mum was pushing her youngest girl on the swing as well. I introduced myself, clicking the little chain across the swing to secure my son. She smiled wide, and her lovely brown eyes sparkled as she told me the names of her kids, pointing out her older daughter who was running around the playground. I don’t remember the details of the conversation, but I do remember feeling like I didn’t want it to end. A little while later, we were pulled by our tired children and weary husbands back to our separate lives, and I remember thinking, ‘This will not be the last time I see her.’

Our firstborns were close in age, as were our second-borns—hers both a little bit older than mine. They seemed like great playdate material. We got together a few times, and it was fun. We talked and drank tea from lovely cups. A friendship was beginning to blossom, and it was beautiful.

This dear lady went on to bravely invite a few of the ladies that she had connected with and drew us into her life in a deep way. She told us how she wanted to intentionally create the community she was longing for herself. She wanted to encourage us to open up and share the raw messy reality of our lives with each other. Having been at a pretty tough place in my motherhood journey— sleepless and breastfeeding, no family nearby and two little people who needed me almost more than I could handle—it felt like this this precious woman was holding out a life preserver to me.

I accepted the invitation wholeheartedly, all the while wondering why I had never done this before. She demonstrated for me how our hearts—that soft emotional bit of us—breathe better amongst friends. Changes start to happen slowly that open us to see the beauty and joy in our world, even on the hard days. We can intentionally make space for that to happen.

There was something in the way that she gave me permission to live my life, with my guard down, that seemed to unlock something deep in me. It was almost as though I’d been marching to the beat of someone else’s drum for a long time. Sitting quietly with this group of ladies, I started to hear my own beat once more. In this new community, I found the freedom to be more fully me again.

Shannon Anderson lives with her husband, who is the love of her life, and their two kids, in Sydney Australia. They are currently at Bible College while they are preparing for full time cross-cultural ministry in a remote Aboriginal Community. But, in the meantime Shannon is hitting up as many amazing Sydney coffee shops as possible and is kid wrangling full time and writing in the margins of life with a young family. You can catch her on Instagram occasionally.

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On Needing a Village
June 26, 2017 In Babies & Toddlers Soul Care for Moms No Comment

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!

I’m surrounded by advice and well wishes, and pastel and glitter baby cards proclaiming obvious truths like, “It’s a girl!” or, “A new baby is here!”. I receive piles of sweet blankets with scalloped edges and tiny onesies emblazoned with witty alliteration and embroidered forget-me-nots. Then the baby comes with a cry and a happy flourish of helping hands and hot meals. My house buzzes with my husband bustling and in-laws simultaneously helping with generous hearts and also driving me crazy. Then they’re off to the airport, I kiss my hubby goodbye as he heads back to work, and I look around my house. It’s empty.

My arms are full. My head is spinning. My heart is bursting, and I am so, so, lonely.

I run errands and see another mom with her hair in a sloppy pony and yoga pants, a sleeping baby cocooned under a brightly printed canopy. I think: Look at me. Smile. Say something. Her eyes glance over and leave mine before I can blurt out the words, “I want to be your friend!”

(photo by Hill Smiley Photography)

Then I’m filled with relief that I didn’t say something so desperate and ridiculous as she answers her phone and chats happily to the familiar voice on the other end. Probably her best mommy friend that she does sweet mommy things with. It seems she never tastes this bright, bitter pill of utter joy, and utter loneliness.

I get into my quiet car and drive home, and wait. Wait for the next feeding. Wait for nap time, and lunchtime, and bath time. I wait for my husband to get home and before I know it, I kiss him goodbye and face another busy, mind numbing day.

In the early days, motherhood can be a confusing blend of big emotions: big joy, big awe, big love, big fear, big loneliness. Yes, enormous love, and cavernous loneliness.

I meet up with friends that were once my safe place, and they feel like strangers. It seems like they are trying to relate, They want to relate, they do, but they haven’t yet experienced the crucible of motherhood with the cries and whims of a tiny human; it’s hard for them to understand where I’m at.

When I spend time with new mom friends, they seem to already have figured out this mommy thing. They laugh and smile, carefree. Their hair looks washed and eyelashes look full with mascara. They don’t look like they want to dart and hide and shout “I can’t do this anymore!” the way I do. They seem to have husbands that are always helpful, grandmas that watch their babies in a moments notice, and other mommy besties that they go on shopping sprees with to Janie and Jack (the store we only window shop at) sipping macchiatos that somehow melt off their perfect post baby frame.

We need a village. I need a village. You need a village, sweet mama.

Some moms might be better at pretending that they have this mom thing figured out. As kids get older, we might even think we’ve figured things out, but the weight of motherhood reshapes our lives for a greater purpose, and a greater responsibility, and we will never be the same again. We suck in that first breath as the nurse places him in our arms , eyes squeezed shut from the flood of light and noise, hands clutching, lip shivering, mouth suckling, and as he draws his first breaths, we never exhale, not fully, not ever again.

I started a moms’ book club last week. I fretted, because a bunch of unfamiliar women getting together can be awkward, and loud, and uncomfortable; it can be exhilarating and beautiful.

The greatest thing happened, I never thought possible. These women started a village. It wasn’t me, it wasn’t the book. It was the beautiful majestic thing called motherhood that gave this group of women the ability to exhale (a little) to be real (mostly), because beneath that great hair is a half a can of dry shampoo, under those lulu yoga pants are unshaved legs, and within that brave mama heart is a small voice whispering, “I’m lonely. I need help. I need others.”

I’m not going to ever get it totally perfect. Yet, when I show up and admit that I need help, when I make myself vulnerable, I am able to find some of the rest my tired mama soul needs. For just a few moments amid the sticky fingers and undone to do’s, I find myself a part of a village, and I don’t feel so lonely or alone. I find a place to call home.

Lindsay Hausch is a pastor’s wife and mother of two girls. She’s a coffee drinking, cupcake-loving, wordsmith that loves leading, speaking and inspiring women to love well. Visit her corner of the world at www.lindsayhausch.com and Facebook. 

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The Fear of Being Forgotten
June 23, 2017 In Faith & Encouragement Soul Care for Moms 3 Comments

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!

I was on day nine; nine long days since I had spoken to another adult face-to-face who knew me by name (and one who I’m not married to). We had left our suburban Kansas home and flew 2,000 miles to Vancouver, British Columbia to live in the bustling inner city where I was homeschooling our three daughters in a condo filled with the landlord’s choice IKEA furnishings, surrounded by strangers from all corners of the world. It was during those days when I learned that the well of loneliness runs deep.

Those long, rainy days were filled with hours of first and second grade math, eighth grade writing projects, and ‘recess’ at the city park. I watched my daughters learn close up during writing lessons at our kitchen table, and from a distance while they made new friends on the playground monkey bars. Those days were also filled with a growing loneliness in me. No friends to stop in for a chat at the kitchen table, no late night Target runs and conversations over the ridiculous purchase of yet another seasonal candle (who can resist?), no quick coffee dates, no church family to connect with, no gym buddies, no surface-y catching up in long carpool lines, no bantering with neighbors on the sideline of the kids’ soccer games. The majority of each day was just my girls and me making sense out of a new chapter of life we never anticipated navigating.

(photo by Jena Meyerpeter, “Courage” banner by Jill Dixon)

Raising and homeschooling three chatty daughters means our home is rarely (read: never) quiet. Opinions and ideas are thrown around like confetti on New Year’s Eve. Even with their constant noise all around, my heart began to experience something new and unfamiliar: deep loneliness. It was as if the bucket of loneliness sank deeper and deeper into a well and I couldn’t see the bottom. I was lonely for familiarity and friendships, but more than that I was lonely for belonging. As the loneliness sank deeper into my spirit, my heart grew quiet. Before long this stillness also settled over my thoughts like a blanketing snowfall. It was in the stillness of those lonely days, as the depths of my well dipped farther than I’d ever experienced, I found a treasure waiting at the bottom.

Far removed from anything familiar or comfortable, no friends or family to be our community, stuck in the middle of a big city playing the daily role of mom and teacher, I met Jesus at the bottom of my loneliness. He was there in my stillness, in my quiet, and there in my fear of being forgotten, holding my hand as a steady companion. I’ve known Jesus as my Savior, Redeemer, and Grace-giver for nearly two decades. He was there with me as a tender Father in the darkness of my first born’s bedroom as I rocked her back to sleep for the fifth time. He was there as my Healer as I wept over the loss of pregnancies, and now He’s the Friend I needed most reminding me that my ultimate place of belonging is in His kingdom and presence.

Motherhood has its moments of isolation and loneliness even under the best circumstances. I remember lonely midnight feedings with babies and feeling isolated on long, dark winter evenings with stir-crazy kids and a husband working out of town. Over the past year, I’ve had moments of fear wondering if all this uprooting and sacrificing for our family will leave me alone and forgotten at the bottom of my well, too far down to reach out to anyone and ever regain a sense of belonging. Occupied by these fears, I nearly failed to discover the treasure waiting for me in my well.

Jesus was already there. I didn’t have to reach far or climb high to find His outstretched hands waiting for me. He, my greatest treasure, was right there all along. Jesus transforms my loneliness into opportunities for deeper relationship with Him. I’ve found a friendship in Jesus I hadn’t known before this season. It turns out the bottom of my well wasn’t a scary or forgotten place after all. It was a distraction-free meeting ground where God captured my full, undivided attention. The same is true no matter what season of life and mothering we’re in. Jesus is already there. He’s in our deepest, darkest places speaking loving words of belonging in a family rooted in eternity, giving us the freedom to go anywhere in this world with the assurance that we’re truly never alone.

Jena Meyerpeter fell in love with words as a little girl tucked away in the aisles of her father’s used bookstores. Today, Jena’s love of words continue as she writes and speaks on all topics faith and family. You can find more of Jena’s writings at JenaMeyerpeter.com and follow her and her family’s adventures on Instagram. 

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What Gives Her Away
June 19, 2017 In Soul Care for Moms 1 Comment

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!

Elyse was four when she first showed us how brave she was—and what mattered enough to bring that bravery out. We’d moved, pulling into the driveway at a new house after dark on a Sunday night and popping out for a pre-school visit at nine the very next morning. During our tour she cast clandestine glances at the other children and when they invited her to stay for their Valentine’s Day party, she smiled and took a chair at their table.

It was her smile that gave her away.

Elyse is known for her smile. It’s ready and open and real. But not that day. That day it was manufactured and careful and maybe a little bit hopeful.

Thirteen years and another move later, we watched as the landscape of her face gradually flattened from its gentle contours into the hard line of a midwestern highway. Her smile gave her away again. It was gone. I knew why, and that we had to act because when my own smile had faded away a few years before, it was action that saved me.


I’d been lonely. Devastatingly so. We’d moved again, this time to a place where I found myself surrounded by people who called me friend but hadn’t made room for real relationship. Without companionship, I lost hope and withered away spiritually, emotionally, and physically, enduring rather than enjoying my life. So when I stepped out of the shower one morning—already weary and ready for the day to be done—and turned on a random podcast, I expected diversion. What I got was direction: There are friends who need you and friends who you need. If you need a friend, go out and find one. It sounded like a simple solution, but it was new to me.

In our previous communities, friendships—both mine and my family’s—had developed organically. They grew slowly, over time, and blossomed into companionable, sustaining relationships. I’d naturally made the friends that I needed and been a friend that others needed. However, life in our new community wasn’t like where we’d lived before. The thought that I’d have to go out in search of a friend because I was in such dire need of companionship wasn’t simply new–it was foreign. It felt humbling and scary and, after years of believing friendship would happen the old fashioned way, it felt hopeless. But I was in trouble. I knew it. And I did what had to be done.

I identified a couple of  women I knew but didn’t know well, acquaintances who liked conversation and looked like they might have some room in their lives for someone in need of a friend. I invited them for coffee dates and play dates and book studies. I initiated, even though it was uncomfortable.

So when I looked at my daughter and saw a flat line instead of a smile, I recognized the source and I understood its gravity. She was two years younger than most of her friends. After bidding them farewell when they headed off to college, she surveyed her life and found herself alone. We aren’t meant to be alone. Kids aren’t. Moms aren’t. And neither are dads. So we acted, not only on Elyse’s behalf but on our family’s. We didn’t want either of our girls to get used to living lonely and we wanted to stop living that way ourselves.

We talked about the state of our friendships. We acknowledged the fact that we move in a small circle in a small town. We decided to focus our family’s energy on combating loneliness by working to foster better relationships both inside and outside our home.

We chose the right activities for us. For Elyse, that meant finding a place to connect with others in a way she found meaningful, even though it meant taking her to another town. For me, it meant forgoing some of the large group gatherings so prevalent in our community and inviting women for one-on-one conversation.

We encouraged—some might say pushed—Elyse to reach out. We practiced hospitality. Elyse and her younger sister hosted gatherings for the girls they were already acquainted with so they could begin to learn the fine arts of initiating, planning, and inviting.

Eight months later, things have changed. It hasn’t been easy. It’s been time consuming and humbling and scary, but just like the visit to her new preschool nearly ten years before, the drive for companionship compelled Elyse to take a place at the table. Interactions with new friends and deepening friendships with acquaintances have returned her smile and restored her joy. It’s graduation season again and she’s shed some tears because some of these new friends will be moving away. But I know she’ll be okay. She has hope.

It’s her smile that gives her away.

Natalie Ogbourne is fascinated by the roads we wander and the stories they tell. A midwest-dwelling wife and mom, she’s perpetually on the hunt for a skirt that will stand up to the trail because she loves the places they take us and everything they give to think about along the way. You can find her at her blog and on Instagram, where she offers encouragement to pause, ponder the path, and press on. 

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No More Magic
May 29, 2017 In Childhood Soul Care for Moms 1 Comment

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.

If you haven’t listened yet, we’d love for you to check out the new Kindred Mom Podcast! 

The floor of my tiny old house creaks and groans underfoot which makes getting to the oasis I’ve been thirsty for all day, a bit of a Parkour obstacle course.  My children are finally in bed after an arduous day of breaking up preschool squabbles, hushing an inconsolable baby, and generally attempting to keep the house from falling apart.  The finish line to my day is within spitting distance but the floor may as well be covered with landmines.  My children—a sleeping three-headed monster that might be roused at the faintest sound–dragging me back to the land of active parenting I am so eager to put behind me.  I tiptoe into the bathroom, gingerly close the door, and turn off the light, murmuring a prayer under my breath. Please let them stay asleep.

I am empty.  I have no more magic, ingenuity or compassion. My last nerve is hanging on by a tattered little thread and I am thankful for the reprieve from being the solo commander of my household.

At last, it is night. I’ve successfully made it to the end of the day and to the bathroom–the last bastion of privacy, solace, and retreat that can be found in my little home–where the tiny upright shower promises to wash my stress down the drain.

I plant my flag here in this tiny closet-sized room, claiming this space and time as my desperately-needed sanctuary.  I pause on the dark side of the bathroom door and take what feels like the first giant breath I have had all day.  My shoulders relax as I subconsciously dismiss them from duty.  This is the fourth night this week I’ve sought refuge in this bathroom at the end of a long day.  Just me in the dark, a hot shower, and a humble little $12.99 candle that illuminates more about me as mother than I thought possible.

I wield a lighter and ignite the dormant candle as it occupies the coveted bit of real estate atop the toilet tank. It is nestled between home improvement magazines and a clock.  In an instant, a soft glow dances on the walls, transforming this tiny room into a spa-like retreat for an exhausted and depleted mother. I cast off the unseen hats: referee, teacher, chef, housekeeper, cheerleader, doctor, counselor. As I toss each one to the ground along with my garments, I become a little bit lighter. At the end, I am edited down to just me.  Not mom, not wife, just me.  I look at the simple little candle that is helping to set the mood of my restoration.

This candle is a metaphor for my recent experiences in motherhood; specifically trying to carry on like business-as-usual when there are just too few resources available to actually do a good job.

Like the candle, I am built to burn, lighting the way with love for my family.  Day after day I light my little flame to care for my family, to bolster their reserves even though it means depleting my own.  The dark ring of soot accumulated around the rim of the container deposited from hours of burning without a consistent fuel supply—I have that too—only my black ring looks like yelling at my kids because I am running on an empty tank.  I’ve got ashy chunks suspended under my waxy surface that testify to my lack of time to take care of myself.  I panic as I notice my energy stores are slipping swiftly down the sides of my jar and I fear that soon there will be nothing left to of me to give.

How does a mother fill the cavernous emptiness after pouring out every last bit she has to the ones she loves?

I realize, as I flicker an unsteady light, void of oxygen necessary for me to keep going, that no one will be able to see very well by the faint hobbling glow I am coughing out.  A candle needs a fuel source to produce light.  No wax, no light.  Mothering my little brood sucks up a lot of my fuel.  I cannot be a help to anyone if I have no reserve from which to draw.  If I am going to do a good job caring for the people I love, I have to keep an eye on how to fill up again.

As I step into the hot shower, I consider all of the hats I have left on the floor of my tiny oasis bathroom, and the water begins washing away all of the unseen heavy, scary, and ugly things that I have hidden away in my heart as I outwardly sing silly songs to my children.  With each droplet of water skittering off my body I heave a cathartic sigh.

This is so desperately hard.

My soul is embraced by the warm water and my limbs are invited to let go of all the tension they’ve carried. I am here to exchange angst for relief, exhaustion for rest. The needle on my proverbial gas gauge inches toward full as I stand in the water. I recognize my own grit, that I am built to do this work.  I can pick up the duties of motherhood each morning and set them down each night.  The fog lifts and I begin to see my world with clearer eyes.  I remember my children are not monsters, but three bright stars in my sky that mesmerize and delight me.

I dry myself off and put on fresh clean pajamas–a simple luxury that is not lost on me–and I am truly thankful for every little thing.  As I nestle my head into my downy pillow, I find I am grateful for these difficult days and deliciously restorative nights–for the clarity illuminated in darkness and for solitude that opens and fills my heart, that breathes on an ember renewing my strength to carry on.

 Jennifer Van Winkle lives in Seattle with her husband and three children (twin boys and a baby girl).  She is a teacher, musician, and currently a stay-at-home mom.  She loves fueling the imaginations of her children with creativity, songs, all things science, good food and lots of play indoors and out.  She blogs at Pepper Sprout Home and you can also find her on Instagram. 

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Surprise Summer (Plus a Summer Survival Kit)
May 23, 2017 In Childhood Soul Care for Moms 5 Comments

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.

***This week we are doing a fun giveaway in celebration of the Kindred Mom Podcast release (quick links to subscribe to the podcast are on the sidebar, and we have a podcast page in the navigation with show notes for each episode). From May 17-May 24, you can enter to win one of two Hospitality Bundles full of goodies that might help you head up a Summer Connection Group in your local area. There are some beautiful things from Magnolia Market included. Not to be missed! Enter on Instagram (beginning May 17) for the Backyard Coffee Hour Bundle or subscribe to our email newsletter to win the Evening Moms Gathering Bundle. Winners for both giveaways will be chosen on May 24th.***

 

This is something I originally shared on my personal blog last September. I thought it would be appropriate to share here in preparation of the summer months ahead. At the bottom of the post, you’ll find some of the things that make up my Summer Survival Kit. I’m planning another summer of time outdoors, and I’m full of hope that this one will be just as meaningful as the last. 

~

The summer, warm and healing, arrived without fanfare, and established a comfortable presence without drama or angst or the always striving that pulses through my veins. Like usual, I was planning to take summer by storm, muscle my household into order, and make the most of every day with some very specific expectations. I didn’t quite expect the peace. I certainly wasn’t looking for it. I was on a road with a heavy load over my shoulder — the responsibility to mother six little people and fill them with whatever good things I could scrape up from the bottom of my own barrel. Summer came, and I don’t know how it circumvented my tight grip on the possibilities for these months, but I found myself seated in a collapsible camp chair in the shade of a big tree, watching my children climb and run, play and discover without me for hours on end — my burden laid down and peace sinking in. We did a lot of nothing that was delightfully everything; hours in open spaces playing, jumping, running, in neon park shirts so mama could spy them from a distance while nursing a chunky love of a baby.

Bright and mild June days set the stage for a summer full of connection, drawing deep from a well of peace, and countless tiny realizations that amount to a total awakening within my heart to a pace and a life that I would never have chosen off the shelf, but embrace with all my heart now that I understand. Some things don’t make sense until you’re holding them. Babies. Ideas. Life-callings. Wholeness that I never thought I would experience quite like this. Every time I think I’m at a whole place, I discover yet another layer of sweetness that comes from trusting God with every detail and every day, relaxing into the reality that so many things I want to control are ultimately up to Him and not me.

We spent many days out of the house. I have always been the stay-in type, probably because I made outings more complicated than they needed to be, and also because many small children of a certain age are quite a challenge to herd in the same direction. I developed a system that involves a kit of items that stayed in the car all summer: 2 strollers, a collapsible wagon, 5 collapsible camp chairs, and a zip-up beach blanket. Every time we went to the park, I would unfurl the above campsite, invite friends to join, and play, chat, and eat for sometimes 4 or 5 hours on a given day. It was comfortable, easy, restful. The mobile kids wore their neon park shirts, and all I had to do was count the dots around the park every few minutes and dish out the food when they came around with grumbling tummies. The other part of our system relied on a packing cube that I refilled daily with diapers, clothes for the baby, and sunscreen, and a large packed lunch with water for everyone that could last us all day if we wanted it to.

We did nature walks in various places — intentionally taking notice of plants, wildlife, insects and other natural things, and the kids sketched things on drawing pads with colored pencils. We visited the library a dozen different times and picked up whatever books interested them, and they read on everything from soccer to crochet to adventurous classics. In the hottest months, we went to splash parks and wading pools in the area, and the kids would come home and make projects from the recycling bin, draw, and play. My two older boys caught the sewing bug from their oldest sister and spent hours stitching different haphazardly cut out fabric pieces together to make bags, and stuffed animals, and other randomness. Both are eager to start using a sewing machine, which I won’t allow them to do until they have achieved a level of mastery with hand-sewing that warrants such a promotion. That yet-out-of-reach reality keeps them both experimenting, tediously stitching, and gaining skills that are not typical of boys these days but make me smile.

It wasn’t until part way through the summer I realized I set everything else down to be fully present with the kids. It wasn’t on-purpose, but more of a grace that landed on me. I didn’t write. I didn’t take pictures with my big camera. I didn’t jam our schedule full of urgent things that weren’t important. Instead, I sat still at the parks and pools while they played, watching, listening, pondering, and privately processing the transition into this new season of having six kids in my care. I am in love with them. They are the sweetest, dearest children I can imagine knowing. My desire to be faithful to this mothering task has grown as my heart swells with love for each of them, and I recognize that there are many, many things that threaten to clutter the precious years we have together.

With the arrival of every new baby, I have learned that our family enters a new season that is full of unexpected turns and surprises — some unexpectedly challenging, and some unexpectedly wonderful. It is like we, as a family, are all new again. As a mother, I am all new again.

“Come to Me, all who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest. Take My yoke upon you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For My yoke is easy and My burden is light.” Matthew 11:28-30

Components of my Summer Survival Kit

*the following links are affiliate links*

Collapsible Camp Chairs – I kept 5 of these in my vehicle at all times throughout last summer so I would have chairs for our family or for friends who stopped in to join us at the park. If you set up a camp site in the middle of a park, its easy to stay there all day! I think these chairs may be cheaper at a sporting goods store.

 

Collapsible Wagon – We bought our collapsible wagon from Costco years ago and I use it daily during the summer, especially on days when we’re headed off to a wading pool or splash park so I don’t have to carry all items + baby + lunch from the car to the set-up site. The wagon makes it a one-trip-job.

Stroller and/or travel Pack n Play – This summer I’ll be using the stroller, but I do have a travel-size pack n play that is easy to transport (fits in my collapsible wagon!) and I used last summer when my youngest was only a few months old. It was nice to have him contained (and able to nap) while the other kids played.

 

Beach Blanket – Our beach blanket zips up and was originally a gift from my mother-in-law. It has seen years of use now, but still holds up well. It isn’t this brand (not sure what brand it is!) but this is similar.

 

Water Bottles – This is the brand and style of water bottle I have been using for myself and I love it, although I did ditch the strainer piece shortly after I got it. I have a purple one. My kids use whatever multi-pack Costco has most recently carried.

 

Packing Cube – I have just one packing cube right now, that was a gift from a friend over 5 years ago, but I love its versatility and will be picking up a few more for this summer. I use it as the daily-refillable diaper container so we always have what we need when we’re out and about. I usually put extra clothes in for baby as well.

Utility Bag – These are my favorite things. I have two (different colors) and I have one as the designated lunch bag and one as the designated swimming bag. So convenient and easy to transport and get stuff in and out of it all day while we’re out. These bags are the only things I bring in daily to clear out and re-fill. All our other park-day gear stays in the car.

 

Fitpacker Containers – I use these containers to pack lunch items in. To me, they are more flexible than tupperware, and are more cost effective quantity-to-cost. If I buy grapes at Costco, I’ll wash and store grapes in 3-4 of these containers so they’re easy to grab when I’m throwing a lunch together in the morning. I do this with lots of things: cheese, nuts, apple slices, carrot slices, etc. They do have bento-style boxes, but for our large family, I like the single compartment and keeping each lunch item in one box.

 

Park Shirts for Kids – Any color park shirt will do, but the idea is to put all kids in the same color so its easy to spot them from a distance. We’ve had this neon yellow for several years, and I finally retired them and bough new orange ones for this summer in each size we need for our family. I keep them in the car at all times, and wash minimally (they get filthy), but the kids wear them over their other clothes. They put them on when we arrive at a park and take them off when we leave, and I bring them in just a few times a summer to wash when I can’t stand it any longer. Following this system keeps them from getting lost in the laundry abyss.

ThinkBaby Sunscreen (or ThinkSport) – This is our favorite sunscreen. The difference is minimal between ThinkBaby and ThinkSport – mostly different fragrances – and it’s easy to apply.

 

Sun Hat – I’m a fair-skinned gal, so I picked up one of these recently to keep the sun off my face when we are at a location that doesn’t have a shady spot available.

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 Emily Sue Allen is the founder of Kindred Mom. She lives with her husband and six kids in Seattle, Washington. She is a contemplative, creative soul who celebrates the beauty of a humble, handmade life and deeply values the power of encouragement. She blogs at www.lightandloveliness.com, and shares bits of her life on Instagram.

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To the Woman Trying to Measure Her Worth
May 18, 2017 In Faith & Encouragement Soul Care for Moms 3 Comments

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.

***This week we are doing a fun giveaway in celebration of the Kindred Mom Podcast release (quick links to subscribe to the podcast are on the sidebar, and we have a podcast page in the navigation with show notes for each episode). From May 17-May 24, you can enter to win one of two Hospitality Bundles full of goodies that might help you head up a Summer Connection Group in your local area. There are some beautiful things from Magnolia Market included. Not to be missed! Enter on Instagram (beginning May 17) for the Backyard Coffee Hour Bundle or subscribe to our email newsletter to win the Evening Moms Gathering Bundle. Winners for both giveaways will be chosen on May 24th.***

The pressure is overwhelming, isn’t it? The pressure to perform, to fit in, to measure up. The pressure to do it all, be it all, experience it all. The pressure to be the first, the best, to do the most.

The pressure to be enough.

I know how you feel, because I am one of you. I am a woman whose worth is too often tied up in the external. I am a woman trying to measure my worth, and this is the conclusion I’ve reached:

We’re using the wrong measurements to determine our success.

We look far and wide, high and low, and into places with no validity to validate ourselves. We ask the world what it thinks and blindly accept what it offers. We listen to our culture instead of our Creator.

Our culture loudly proclaims the measure of the moment, and when it changes, we’re left reeling and reinventing ourselves. We’re left wondering if the next measure will find us lacking or if we’ll finally see our worth. We keep evaluating ourselves with an ever-changing ideal, and then we wonder why we can’t find peace in who we are.

We’re using the wrong standards.

Ladies, the length of your eyelashes isn’t a measure of your worth.

The label on your shoes can’t give or take away your merit.

The circumference of your waist doesn’t make you more valuable or detract from your inherent importance.

The grades on your kids’ report cards don’t validate your mothering, and the messes in their rooms don’t mean you’re failing.

The likes you get on Facebook mean nothing about who you are, and the followers you have on Instagram don’t make you a woman of significance.

The number of times you worked out this week doesn’t mean anything about the woman you really are.

The cash you have in your bank account is not a measure of your value, and the debt you’re fighting to pay down doesn’t mean you’re worth any less.

The square footage of your home and the design of your den are far from indicators of your stature.

The looks that others give you are not the measure of how you matter.

We want to quantify our worth based on what we can measure. If we can calculate it, we think we can count on it.

I’d love to remind you of a truth we forget: our worth is immeasurable.

We internally develop complex formulas to figure out our value.

Weight + job title x social media following = my worth.

Credit card bill – clothing expense + comments about my outfit = my value.

Job promotion + quarterly bonus + vacation destination = my importance.

The hardest thing for us to realize is that nothing we can see or quantify can accurately measure who we are. Only one thing matters, and it’s a position given and never earned.

We have worth because we belong to God. It’s as simple and as complicated as that.

We have incalculable worth because our only-loving God lifted us from death to life, calling us daughters and “the righteousness of God” (2 Cor. 5:21). We are made enough because we belong to the Almighty. We matter because God gave up his Son in order to bring us into his presence.

There is nothing we can do to make ourselves more or less worthy, even though the world begs us to believe otherwise.

Almost daily, I fall into the enemy’s trap of measuring who I am. I look at what I do, how I perform, how I look, and what others think. I fall back into my old ways of working for my worth and calculating how I did based on what people say.

I know what it’s like to work relentlessly for the approval of others and end up devastated when they don’t give their praise.

It is impossible to receive everyone’s approval, and I’ve learned that I’ll always fall short in someone’s eyes. Evaluating my worth apart from God’s truth is maddening. It’s maddening, and it always skews my perception of who I really am.

I am God’s masterpiece (Eph. 2:10).

I am a child of God (1 John 3:1).

I am God’s chosen one (Col. 3:12).

I am His treasured possession (Deut. 7:6).

Whenever we forget the reality of who we are in Christ, we let the world dictate who we should be. We let it tell us what we should do, and we let it control the view of ourselves we hold. We begin to strive and hustle and work and compromise, and then we begin to judge and criticize and condemn and control. We enter into a cycle of doing more things instead of being God’s children, and we judge ourselves based on our output instead of our standing.

We can never work our way into our worth. We can never achieve enough to feel worthy or earn enough to believe we have value.

We can only embrace our worth. We can’t earn it.

Jesus told his disciples, “No longer do I call you servants, for the servant does not know what his master is doing; but I have called you friends, for all that I have heard from my Father I have made known to you” (John 15:15). We are no longer slaves – we are not under bondage to behavior and performance. We are free, and we are friends with the One who gives us worth. He has made both Himself and His love known, and His measure of us is the only one that will stand.

 Jennie Scott is a divorced and remarried mom of two whose life has been far from perfect and completely different from what she planned. What she has found, though, is that God has provided exactly what she needed through it all. He is teaching her to enjoy the journey even when the path is winding and difficult. She blogs at jenniegscott.com.

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Metamorphosis
May 5, 2017 In Childhood Soul Care for Moms 1 Comment

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. 

 

This morning I had every intention of being a perfect mom. My in-laws were coming to take my daughter for the day, so I wanted to make the most of our moments together. I woke up full of gratitude for the little life cuddled up next to me. I drank in the sweet scent of her as I held her soft hand and squeezed her tight, thanking the good Lord for blessing me with the beauty of her presence.

Then she got her sweet little three-year-old self out of bed, and things took a turn for the worse.

The next hour and thirty-six minutes became an endless stream of semi-coherent demands and mini-tantrums at every turn. I tried to get some food in my system to curb my irritation. I drank some water. I spoke in a calm voice. I took deep breaths, and I repeated myself kindly until the cows came home.

Then you know what I started to do? I started to yell. The three-year-old and I started arguing. It wasn’t my best moment. When my in-laws arrived and my little cantankerous sweetheart walked out the door, I nearly burst into tears. I missed her so much it hurt, and I chastised myself like crazy for not meeting my own expectations of the morning.

Becoming a parent was one of the best things that ever happened to me, but there was a lot that took me by surprise. It’s a crazy ride, to be sure, and the one thing that still takes me off guard to this day is the constant, nagging, unrelenting sensation of inadequacy.

In moments like these, I find myself missing the pre-motherhood me. I had this confidence and self-assurance that followed me everywhere I went. I miss that girl. She drank dirty martinis and wore high heels. She did her hair everyday, and her clothes didn’t contain a lick of lycra. She knew what she wanted out of life and she went after it, laying those obstacles down in her wake.

The truth is that pre-mom me was still a hot mess. She just happened to be a lot more insulated from the knowledge of her own limitations. There is something about being a mom that has acquainted me with my own humanity like nothing else ever has. It’s a feeling of being stripped and laid bare, like a sea snail yanked out of its shell, lying on the sand with its soft underbelly exposed to the heat of the sun. It’s not necessarily painful, just really, incredibly disorienting to have all that vulnerability out on display.

Parenthood is, at its core, a transformation of identity. It is about setting aside the old and becoming something new. We are the proverbial caterpillars, emerging from the chrysalis in foreign bodies, engaging the world in an entirely new way. In the midst of all this change, I wonder if the feeling of inadequacy is an expression of our disorientation and fear. Maybe the sense of certainty that eludes us is about us adjusting to the reality that the old is gone and the new is come.

So here is what I am trying to do. I’m trying to crawl out on that seashore in the light of day. I’m trying to lie down on the warm sand, as I let the salty air and gentle waves touch that sensitive new skin. I’m trying to take deep, cleansing breaths as I allow myself to be new and unformed and incomplete.

I want to believe in the possibility of a different way of being, one in which I welcome the novelty with open arms, and embrace the new me that I am becoming. Transformation is a process, and I’m smack dab in the middle of it. I’m still a hot mess, but maybe that’s not such a bad thing after all. Maybe it’s beautiful, and maybe I’m exactly who I’m meant to be.

 Jayna is a San Diego wife and mama who became a writer and stay-at-home parent when her daughter, Jude, was born three years ago. She is married to her high school sweetheart, who loves and inspires her everyday. She and her family recently transitioned to the (almost) country life, where they spend their time enjoying the fresh air, growing vegetables and making reclaimed wood furniture. Her blogs can be found at www.jaynarae.com, and www.jlondonfurniture.com/blog. (Bio photo by Katie Gardner)

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A Choir Calling
April 21, 2017 In Babies & Toddlers Soul Care for Moms 2 Comments

For the month of April, Kindred Mom is covering the following topics: Postpartum Recovery, Encouragement for the New Mom, Autism Awareness Month, and Screen Time Conversations. We hope you’ll return to read the incredible 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.

 

It’s a modern church with interesting architecture and striking stained-glass artwork. There are various pieces of art hung throughout the church, each one with its own purpose and story which I want to know. My story is there too. I walk into the church each Wednesday evening, my hair hanging in unkempt tendrils around my face which, if I’m being honest, may or may not have been washed that day. The baby is in the stroller, cooing, maybe crying, it just depends on what kind of a day we’ve had.

Wednesdays at our house are “full-swing.” By that, I mean that we are on our little train, going places. Homeschool, working out, kids’ Kung Fu class, doctor appointments, the 4 year old is with us because he only goes to preschool Tuesday and Thursday…full-swing. There’s not a lot of breathing time or self-care time. That’s more of a Saturday ritual, breathing.

But not Wednesdays.

There’s a late afternoon shuffle. My husband gets home while I’m finishing making dinner for him and the kids and then I leave with my infant daughter. She and I make our way to this interesting and out-of-place-in-Los Angeles Episcopal church where I get to sing. The choir is made up of about 16 people with various backgrounds and most of the people are, ahem, shall we say…a bit grey?

They are (mostly) all lovely and accept me and my chaos—I mean baby—with grace and love.

There’s the 2 grandpa-basses who sit behind me and inquire about the age of my baby again,  “Is she about 8 weeks now?”

“No,” I say, blushing. “She’s 5 months old now!”

They guffaw and smile and say of course. There’s the token curmudgeonly older lady who rarely smiles, but somehow, she likes me. And I her. She asks after me and my daughter every week, making sure we don’t need any help to or from the car.

As I step into the church, I feel like breathing even though it’s only Wednesday. I smile. I know not everyone has this reaction to churches, but I do to this one in particular. As I enter, it’s as if the church asks me to leave my outside chaos…outside. Peace is what is welcomed and honored here. The church is quaint while still being modern, grand while maintaining a mysterious humility. It’s not too big, holding seats for only about 200 people. The altar is beautiful with carved candlesticks and a beautiful concrete and wooden table for the sacrament. There are beautiful stained glass installments, some of which are straightforward like an illuminated Jesus over the altar, while others are more esoteric and require a bit of deeper reflection.

As we rehearse, our sometimes imperfect pitches permeate the walls and bounce back to me. I leave the mama world where I worry about each of my kids. When I’m there, I am a singer. A professional, perhaps. The baby sleeps in the stroller, lulled to sleep by our harmonies, and I am just Lynne, a girl who loves to sing. I dig into the challenge of reading each note and accurately moving my line in concert with the other singers around me. I make a contest out of singing a particularly difficult passage without making a mistake, a contest to pursue excellence and complete something without interruption. For these moments, I am good at something and it feels satisfying. Often my days of mothering feel like a string of question marks marked by desperate prayer. Will they grow up to be decent people? Will they ever sleep? Will they really know God deeply? Will they love me when they are grown or will they turn to therapy to deal with how much I’ve messed them up? Seriously, God? Will they? But these notes on the page are questions answered. I just have to sing the right notes, that’s it. The requirements here in this space are simple.

The baby, having fussed during our last piece, is now nursing contentedly. Rehearsal is over and I feel energized and light. Those two hours of singing and just being me are like a dose of medicine. The choir members filter out to the parking lot and say their goodnights. I gently get the baby back into her carseat and gather my music. On the way out of the church, a tapestry draped on a side altar catches my eye. It reads:

“All shall be well

and all shall be well

and all manner of thing shall be well.”

~Julian of Norwich

My heart swells. I know that in my full-swing Wednesday, I have come to this church and the desperate question marks of motherhood have been answered.

All shall be well.

 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.

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My Body, Broken
April 17, 2017 In Pregnancy & Birth Soul Care for Moms 6 Comments

For the month of April, Kindred Mom is covering the following topics: Postpartum Recovery, Encouragement for the New Mom, Autism Awareness Month, and Screen Time Conversations. We hope you’ll return to read the incredible essays we have to share with you and cheer on the courageous mamas who have shared them. If you would be interested to contribute something to Kindred Mom in the future, please visit the “Write for Us” page for details. 

 

“My body, broken.”

“My body is broken, ruined.”

This became the overwhelming thought of despair in my mind more than a few times in the weeks following the birth of my second daughter. After being miserable during the recovery of my first delivery, an unwanted c-section, I’d insisted on a VBAC for my second, hoping (expecting) the recovery would be much better. Then I tore… to the 4th-degree.

Amidst the physical pain in the simplest of things (sitting, walking, going to the bathroom), the anxiety and (irrational) fear of not knowing if or when I’d ever be able to be intimate with my husband again, the trauma of the way the delivery played out, and the stress of amplified discipline issues as my 3-year-old adjusted to another person to share attention with, I found myself with so many conflicting and intense feelings. I felt love for my two beautiful daughters, along with joy and thankfulness so big I thought my heart might explode. At the same time, I felt soul-crushing sadness, disappointment and confusion. In my darkest moments of despair I wondered if God was trying to tell me something in making childbirth so terrible for me: was my body just not cut out to bear children? Was I not cut out to be a mother?

After almost 3 months postpartum, the intensity of these feelings, along with the physical pain, had waned some. One day, I took some of the physical, mental, and emotional brokenness before the Lord and it hit me like a ton of bricks: “my body, broken” are familiar words. I’d heard them not only in my own moments of despair, but also from Jesus.

“You are not the only one to give your body to be broken on behalf of another,” were Jesus’ tender words to me that day. “I gave mine. For you. To a far greater extent than you will ever be broken.”

Jesus’ incarnation shows us what it means to be fully human. We can look into His life and find what it is to live as we were all meant to, as the beloved child of a trustworthy Father. Jesus’ fully human life led to an immeasurable joy, but the path to the joy set before Him led Him through unimaginable sacrifice, sorrow and pain. Looking at His path, we can know that pain and sorrow are not surprising phenomena on this earth, while it’s still broken: they, like joy, are a part of what it means to be fully human, as Jesus was.

In preparation for my VBAC, I read many positive things about childbirth, which focused on our bodies being designed for birthing.These pieces suggested that the whole process is the most natural thing in the world — so very human. However, when my birthing experience left me so broken, I felt deep down as though the humanity in it had somehow been diminished. My body didn’t seem to do what it was designed to do very well. I felt lesser than the women whose bodies birth babies without serious complications.

But. But!

Jesus giving Himself to be broken for me means that I can experience my brokenness with hope. The extent of the brokenness doesn’t diminish the humanity of the experience. On the contrary, I am experiencing a small taste of the life Jesus lived and I get to commune with Him as One who empathizes with the pain of a broken body, a body given to bring life to another. To borrow a phrase from Kathy Keller in The Meaning of Marriage, I get to “play a Jesus role” in motherhood as I give my body for the sake of my beloved.

The truth is, we get many opportunities to “play a Jesus role” in motherhood. In the aches and pains of growing a human for 9 months and in childbirth, or in the agonizing wait and painstaking preparations for an adoption. In the sweaty, sticky moments nursing babies under a blanket, or in the time we spend as human jungle gyms for rambunctious toddlers. In the meals prepared and the clothes laundered. In the science projects created and the papers edited. We get to use these bodies to love our people. Sometimes it’s painful. Sometimes it’s ecstasy. Always, there’s hope: both in the ultimate joy set before us and in the joy to be found when we look to Jesus as the One who empathizes with both, the soul-expanding joys, and the heart-crushing sorrows of what it is to be fully human and a mother.

Laura Way is wife to Aubrey and momma to Jubilee and Irene. She and her family live, work, and play in a ‘lil million person city in Asia. Laura is passionate about discovering what it is to be fully human and helping others to do the same.  When both the stars align and her kids are occupied, she enjoys writing at sojourningmomma.wordpress.com and can also be found on Instagram and Facebook.

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