Undone, unraveled, bare, raw. Being the mom of a newborn could leave an otherwise got-it-together woman feeling undone. Unworthy and unable (and maybe even unstable, can I get an amen?) when that newborn already has two big sisters.
We do not want to be undone; we resist the rawness that accompanies being undone. I am learning to be okay with this rawness, at least in my own home and before my Father God. I am typing this as I nurse an 8-week old baby (talk about undone!) and my two year old is crying, “mommy” from her time out spot (don’t worry, a timer is set; I’ll get her out). God asked me to homeschool our kindergartener this year, still teach at Northpoint Bible College, and learn to be the momma to three precious littles. He essentially has called me to be undone this fall. To learn that failure and falling short will happen every single day–every single hour some days. I fail to be patient enough with my five year old or to keep little miss two year old’s piggy tails smooth and sweet. But I am starting to see the loveliness of crooked piggy tails and failure, which can discourage me. Or, it can can remind me that I can safely abide in my Father whose strength is made perfect in my weakness (On my refrigerator I have this great little printable from Confessions of a Homeschooler, on Super Mom vs Abiding Mom)
My poem, After the Evening News, was written when I had just one beautiful daughter, my Audrey. If you’re a mom, you will likely resonate with the sentiment of the poem: a parent’s desire to guard and protect her child. I know my Heavenly Father guards and protects me, but I am also know that He allows me to feel undone, so I may find my completeness and joy are really only found in His presence.
After the Evening News
The pain
you woke to is not yours.
— Sylvia Plath “Nick and the Candlestick”
Darling daughter
I
want to package you in
bubble wrap, tuck
you in a box of packing
peanuts; cover brown
cardboard with neon stickers—
Fragile. I want
to pad each pink corner
in your room, lay plush
rugs below your bed.
Let me squeeze your peach
fingers in my hand when you
go down stairs, walk to our
mailbox, buy gumballs, follow
grasshoppers, and change
channels on the t.v. Bandaids
are in my back
pocket. I want to
catch you—duct tape
pillows to your pants
(my mother’s protection
for my first roller skates).
Want to pinch the waxy ears
of that pudgy boy who
pushed you off the swirly
slide.
Darling, darling
I will let you walk
to bus stops mittenless.
Hot chocolate will wait
for you at home. I will
bite my lip, blood pooling
under skin, say nothing
when you smear baby oil,
freckled girl, instead
of sunblock.
I want you
to sleep through pain
that is not yours. Don’t want you
to know of the woman
who jumped from a train
to save a child
already gone.
If you enjoyed my poem, you might enjoy my chapbook I Call You Light. You can purchase it here, or contact me for a signed copy.