(I published a version of this last year, but in I needed this for myself in amidst the groundhog days of parenting colliding with big change on the horizon. My song has faltered a bit lately so I’m retuning my voice.)
My bigs played in the mud this weekend. Wallowed in it, really. And in the aftermath, I’m bent low over mud strewn across my bathroom floor, sweeping up the chunks, caught in the hard and beautiful work of mothering my babes, and it’s a posture of worship, this bending at the knees. Of gratitude to a Father who would make me for them.
I’m scrambling for the words to tell you how it feels to know I carry the weight of their souls, how terrified and joyful I become when I absorb the whole of being their mother. How it feels when the monotony of routine becomes extraordinary.
And so I will sing you my story, my song. A melody of dirty dish and laundry piles. Sweet notes of garden manure and chicken coops, of fragile plants and hope. A cacophony of wrestling matches, sibling spats and the squawk of a raucous toddler girl.
In the middle, we dance. We dance to Bruno Mars and AC/DC and songs about tacos, pajamas, and eggs. We dance to songs about the potty. Sometimes we dance because we need to go to the potty. Sometimes we break dance.
I’ve said before and I’ll sing it here, this motherhood journey is heart-aching hard, non-linear, and sanctifying.
So sing, mommas, sing. Hum sweaty boy hugs and chubby toddler arms tight around your neck. Whisper words of forgiveness, of friendship, of redemption. Sing softly to your babes when tears flow and yes, sing your own songs of worry, surrender, joy, and praise.
Our songs? They are broken notes and broken hearts sometimes, and never pitch perfect and often failure, but always, always full of grace.
Mamas, can I encourage you to sing this week, to look for notes of beauty in the ordinary, extraordinary work of motherhood?