There seems to be a general consensus: the most ISOLATING and LONELY job is that of a stay-at-home mom.
We spend our days filling sippy cups and wiping noses and we just don’t have all of the sought-after adult interaction. Where is the conversation? The COMMUNITY?!
We live for the rare moments our working friends invite us to tag along on adventures, as long as they fit the one-income budget. We crave the time our husbands are home as a break. The silence in the morning hours is EERIE.
Except that it’s not.
To those mamas who worry about being a useful member of society.
To those mamas who are content with stepping outside of the “real world” for a season to focus on the little ones who need her in every sense of the word.
To those mamas who went to college, passed the tests, worked the job, and left it all.
To those mamas who mentally can’t do both but are still strong women, channeling their strengths in a different direction than they ever have before.
I’m with you.
When I sit in silence with baby eyes staring at me, I don’t feel emptiness.
When I lose all track of time stacking blocks, I don’t feel useless.
This wave of pity is poured into the media, left and right. Buckets and buckets of resentment and misunderstanding are added to the tsunami and before we know it, it breaks over us in a moment of overwhelming tension.
“It must be nice.”
“What do you do all day?”
“I couldn’t just sit at home.”
The comments at the crest of the wave hit first but the aftermath is left swirling in our minds long after the white waters have returned to their gulf.
Why do we let this happen?
Why is it so easy for the tiniest of waves to become massive tsunamis that can uproot a tree planted so firmly in the ground?
Because whether you’re a ship that leaves the harbor every day or a planted tree, a wave should have no such impact.
And I said, “Thus far you shall come, but no farther; And here shall your proud waves stop.” Job 38:11.
We should not be proud in the same way we shouldn’t let others’ pride wash over us. Every time we feel a mist of hate, we must stop pouring back into the wind. Instead, be thankful in your space, whether it be mobile or not.
Don’t question the answers placed so gently on your heart.
When God planted me here, I was so angry. I had crawled my way to the coast and was proud of every bit of dirt under my fingernails.
I was READY to board that ship…and not just any ship, but the boldest ship designed for transportation.
It took more than one wave to knock me down.
It took a constant, nauseating motion that day-by-day made me listen more intently to the gentle swishes plopping onto the sides of my ship.
I glared at other ships in envy, for they were truly made for the task at hand.
They would perform their duties that filled them up at sea each day and then return to the harbor where they were equally joyed each night.
I rolled onto the coast at the end of each trip sick from the constant rocking and drained from too much sunshine.
It was only when I was knocked down to my knees that I gave up to the tug of the rope that had been pulling me to land for months.
You see, our ropes are all different lengths. Right now, mine is short. Next year, it could grow.
She has a more impressive stern, a longer rope, a better view of the water. But, I realize, maybe she’s MADE that way. I am not.
I rose from my knees and walked away from the water but not forever.
Now, I like to think my roots could be easily moved, that my branches are full.
I like to think that you can still see me from miles into the sea, that I still cast a shade in that direction.
I am strategically placed. I am wonderfully made.
And only here in this place can I find peace in this moment.
Therefore, when I’m encouraged to grow a forest around me to combat the loneliness, for surely only then will I blossom, I will stand taller and relish in the fact that from where I am, I have the view God wanted me to have.
Today, that view looks like a pile of blocks and Goldfish crackers.