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


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



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.

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