It’s Temporary; We’re Temporary

PT. 1

I believe I started this as a mommy blog so it’s OK to occasionally melt back into that theme since motherhood is what makes up most of my day-to-day existence. Except when it ironically doesn’t because the growing of a new human renders me unable to perform many of the most basic motherhood duties…or at least I’m doing the very least to survive said motherhood duties.

I don’t want to wallow, because that’s what I do too many hours per day in my head. I do want to write to the mom who might be in the blackhole of their first trimester and silently struggling, saying no to most social things because leaving the house or just taking a few quick steps makes your stomach do a somersault. I’m writing this while I’m in it and will publish later when I’ve seen the light again and this depressive state of things is over.

I do have many questions for God around pregnancy. Why is it that we (or I) feel the worst in weeks 6 through 12 when it’s not yet “safe” to share and celebrate the news but when we’re most in need of empathy and understanding? Why do some women get no morning sickness at all (really bitter towards them right now!)? Why does everything smell so foul and you don’t want to eat things but you must to prevent constant nausea and vomiting? My theory is that this is to keep us from eating things that might be contaminated or generally not good for the baby, but why does even blessed coffee not settle? The baby and I need that coffee, God.

Oh yes, I was going to not wallow. Or maybe that’s what you need to hear right now. So I’ll proceed. I’m 9 weeks pregnant and each time I sit on the Peloton and attempt to ride the bike I feel like I have a fever. I sweat upon the first 10 pedal strokes and cannot push past level 2 (of 7) on my power bar (or the zones of effort at the bottom of the screen). I feel like a weak vessel. This grape-sized baby is sucking the literal life out of me. I think I have “worked out” 1x per week the last three weeks. This morning I gave the girls their breakfasts, took some B6/Unisom (which is supposed to curb nausea), gagged on the pills then threw up in the kitchen sink. I looked up to see if the girls noticed. They did not. If you’re looking to your 5 and 2-year-old for compassion, you will be disappointed. When I was pregnant with Gracie, Skylar laughed at me if she saw my throw up. She was 2. I forgive her. My main struggle right now is guilt. I pick Sky up from school and Gracie wakes from her nap…and I’m guessing I fell asleep as I was writing that sentence.

PT. 2

I’m back and 22 weeks pregnant. And I can happily report that I just enjoyed a breakfast sandwich and a holiday coffee drink. No nausea, no puking, just a bit of a squished stomach that will only become more compacted as this baby boy grows. But hallelujah that morning sickness is a temporary condition, because it really can squeeze the joy out of life. I guess in some ways it makes perfect sense that there’s a lot of life taken from without as one is formed within.

I think one of the hardest things to hear when we’re in the middle of something hard is “it will get better” because we simply cannot believe it. But somehow, time does transfigure our hearts and minds. My central theme on this platform these past years has been grief and trudging through it. The reality of losing my best friend and mom as I’m in these intense years of motherhood still hurts, but it’s more of an ache and less of a searing pain. I think of her daily as I wonder how she navigated trying to foster gratitude in kids who think good things are supposed to continually land on their laps. Or how she modeled gentleness in the midst of our tantrums. Or how overwhelmed she was (or wasn’t?) in these years of having small children and trying to run a side business, keep the house sane. In my memory she did it all with grace and patience, but surely she broke more times than I remember.

The temporary state of things can be a comfort or a startling reminder of time marching on. My 96 year old Grammy passed away last week in her sleep (November 2022). Part of me thought she would live forever because I wasn’t sure if she could ever willingly let herself go. She really loved living life and did so with great zest into her early 90s. But she finally unclenched and let go. And we’re not heavy hearted because she’s in heaven, fully restored and living a reality too majestic for our worldly little brains to dream up.

So it goes, when life is sweet, we want it to endure. When it’s not, we’re quickly ready to quit.

“Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes.” James 4:14

I can see where some might read this and think it’s nihilistic. But I believe it’s meant to humble us into thinking of how very temporary our state is.

PT. 3

Appropriately enough, I’m finishing this blog in a third sitting at 34 weeks pregnant and I’m back to being fairly uncomfortable but not puking (woohoo!). What brings me back to the keyboard isn’t my growing belly and the evidence of perpetual change but a high school friend of mine who just lost her sweet mama. I hurt deeply for her and her family because I know the grief journey they are just beginning to embark upon.

The pastor at my church has pointed out the difference between a graveyard and a cemetery before. Do you know the difference? One is beside a church (graveyard) and one stands alone. One of the reasons the pastor gave for having graveyards beside churches is that it postures your mind appropriately as you enter and exit the church. You’re smacked with the reality of your mortality as the door swings both ways. We hate thinking about death, but each year lived makes me more and more aware of life’s fragility and its inevitable end. It’s hard to comprehend the loss of life in Turkey and Syria after the extreme earthquakes of last week. Death toll of 40,000. It’s easy to become grief-stricken and depressed if you actually attempt to process the significance of that number.

In the book of John (John 16:20-21), Jesus told his disciples of his impending death:

“Very truly I tell you, you will weep and mourn while the world rejoices. You will grieve, but your grief will turn to joy. A woman giving birth to a child has pain because her time has come; but when her baby is born she forgets the anguish because of her joy that a child is born into the world.”

Any passage comparing grief to child birth really pops out at me right now. 🙂 If there is a bright spot to the anguish we feel as we lose people we love in our earthly days, it is that it is temporary. We cannot see the pattern being woven for us, perhaps not until we’re long gone. In case you’ve never read this incredible illustration made famous through Corrie Ten Boom’s The Hiding Place, give it a look:

My Life is but a weaving
between my Lord and me;
I cannot choose the colours
He worketh steadily.
Oft times He weaveth sorrow
And I, in foolish pride,
Forget He sees the upper,
And I the underside.
Not till the loom is silent
And the shuttles cease to fly,
Shall God unroll the canvas
And explain the reason why.
The dark threads are as needful
In the Weaver’s skillful hand,
as the threads of gold and silver
in the pattern He has planned.
He knows, He loves, He cares,
nothing this truth can dim.
He gives His very best to those
who leave the choice with Him.

“The Weaver” by Grant Colfax Tullar

The dark threads woven into our lives feel so messy and entangling. On the backside of my own tapestry, I think how could my life possibly be better without my mom here? God messed up the pattern there. But surely that’s what the disciples thought as they witnessed the execution of Christ. “God, stop, you’re screwing it all up.”

We’re but a vapor. How can we so arrogantly assume we know how this seemingly monstrous loom even works?

“In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” – John 16:33

I want so badly for there not to be trouble. But in my 35 years of life, how much wisdom have I accumulated that I feel able to map out a smooth life for myself and others? What purpose does a smooth life serve anyway? What’s the metaphor— sometimes you think it’s dark, you’re buried, don’t know which way is up, but it’s just there where you begin to germinate and grow. If only I could trust, there’s no stitch we could place better than He.