In a Pinterest world

A couple weeks ago I officially joined Pinterest. At least I think I did. As soon as I was done putting in my information and received an email that said something about "congratulations" on joining, well, duty called. My newborn woke up as he blasted breastmilk poop up his back and began squalling the most pathetic cry. I can tell he's the baby of the family right now because he has the "feel sorry for me" cry mastered.

I have not been on Pinterest since. I am sure it is amazing and I am sure it is super helpful and I am even sure it would revolutionize my world. Pinterest would probably solve all my mommy problems, make me the envy of my friends, and make me sparkle and shine.

But the thing is, I am too tired for that. Nor do I have any desire to sparkle. And honestly, this little glowing journal is about the only place I desire to be online these days. It is my little haven in the darkness.

At 3:30 this morning the tiny person who shares our bed decided it was a good time to spray me with breastmilk. It ran down my chest, into my v-neck shirt, and into my sleeping bra where it puddled in all it's warm sliminess. I cringed and reached for the cold wipes to clean myself up while I picked up the baby with the other hand to comfort him and clean him up. I put him on my shoulder to burp him  and the hand that was supporting his bottom felt a wet warmth. I slowly took my hand away, almost afraid to look, and there was a smear of yellow on my hand. I bit my lip, which lately has become raw from all the chewing, and grabbed a diaper and a change of baby clothes. Two diaper changes, 45 minutes of nursing, and three outfit changes later (one for him, two for me), we finally slipped back to sleep.

The greatest part was, I didn't cry from exhaustion and was somehow even able to smile and talk sweetly to my little man as I took care of his needs. I am needed. And he is super cute.

One day my 8 year old son asked me, "Mama? What is the meaning of life? I mean, if we can't stop sinning and be perfect, why does God leave us here instead of just taking us home where we can be perfect and live with Him?"

First I laughed inwardly that my little child could not realize the question he asked probably has more books written on the topic than any other subject and is debated more heavily than perhaps even politics, then I responded simply, "The meaning of life is love. God wants to make us rich in service, rich in our vocation, because when we are rich in service we know love and we know Him because He is love."

"Beloved, let us love one another, for love is from God, and whoever loves has been born of God and knows God. Anyone who does not love does not know God, because God is love. In this the love of God was made manifest among us, that God sent his only Son into the world, so that we might live through him. In this is love, not that we have loved God but that he loved us and sent his Son to be the propitiation for our sins. Beloved, if God so loved us, we also ought to love one another. No one has ever seen God; if we love one another, God abides in us and his love is perfected in us."
(1 John 4:7-12 ESV)

I have 4 little boys that I am homeschooling and their newborn brother, 1 little baby girl that I watch full time for her working Mama, and 1 giant dog that is nearly as tall as my husband. He really is more of a horse. And he is an indoor dog. And lately I am a lot more careful about going out in public. I suppose I am something of a spectacle. I understand this and I understand the frequent comment, "Do you know what causes that?".  Kids are an insult to our sparkly, dignified, and intense need for a perfectly fake persona. Why do we try so hard to fool ourselves? I suppose it goes back to my 8 year old's question. "What is the meaning of life?"

Look, I don't have kids because it makes me sparkly or because it's fun or because then I can impress you with my Pinterest mothering skills. I understand that we will make you uncomfortable as I walk through the store and perhaps have not showered and my kids are wearing their unmatched outfits they picked out themselves because I was too busy cleaning up the kitchen and running loads of laundry. I am sure it will be a huge inconvenience to your shopping experience if one of the babies starts screaming and I have to scold the toddler or chastise the school age children. I do not have it all together, my kids are real kids with real emotions, I am a real person with real emotions, and I know you are probably thinking that if I just knew what caused this I might stop it already so that I can put myself together more and stop embarrassing myself.

In 9 years I have been pregnant 11 times. Six of those 11 times I have hidden away in my bathroom to shed my blood as my babies went home to the Lord (which also insulted plenty of people). The other five for now are mine. But I cannot stop it. I cannot stop procreation because it is not I who put them there. The Lord has called me to marriage and therefore to a one flesh union in marriage and as a result I receive the fruits of that marriage as He desires to give or not give them. A + B = C. It is God Who calls and God Who gives.

Every day I am rich. I am rich in opportunity to serve and to love. I am rich in my vocation. I go to bed exhausted from head to toe, I have more jobs than I can accomplish in a day...or a week, and I am needed. And in my kids' need for me I am reminded of my need for Christ. When I am frustrated, overwhelmed, alone, and haven't even had opportunity to think of myself in hours or even days, I think on Christ who came to earth without my asking or even knowing that I needed Him in order that He might die, for me, and for all.

My kids need me because they are weak, helpless, often dumb or at least ignorant, and rebellious to anything that is good for them. They choose the worst possible moments to misbehave, act foolish, get sick, and make me face sin in front of everyone I wish I could impress. But, instead, I am left facing my own complete lack of control over not only their sin, but mine. I am left completely broken. But there's a certain freedom in being broken. When you have no one left to impress (and know you never can anyways), all that is left is to live to die to my own desires, to my own selfish ambitions, and to my own desire to be applauded and, by the power of the Holy Spirit, be raised up to serve in His love, mercy, and grace while we wait for His return. Come Soon, Lord Jesus.