Family

The tears roll down my cheeks as we drive to church. 

“But this is what you wanted,” my husband says, his eyes bewildered.

“I know,” I sniff, “but I didn’t know it was going to feel like this.”

We never made it to church that Sunday. We drove around talking through my mixed-up feelings surrounding motherhood and newborns. 

Prior to having our baby boy, I was a kindergarten teacher. Few have loved their job as much as I loved that one. I was the queen of a classroom full of adoring little ones. Seeing their minds delight in new things and the door crack open to reading for them thrilled me. I loved my students so much; I soon could think of little else than having children of my own. 

When I told my class I was going to have a baby, a sweet boy said, “I always knew you were a mother.” I always knew it too.

Having a newborn was more than I had expected. I struggled with feeling useless while being on call 24/7. My new role replaced the spark of imparting valuable skills and knowledge to my students with sleeplessness and diaper duty. I loved my baby, but I was exhausted and didn’t feel like I could pull it together. I felt like anyone could do for him what I was doing; my sense of purpose extinguished. The initial sacrifice of myself was more than I had imagined.

It took me several months to find my stride as a new mom. By the time my boy was a toddler, I had reached the place of loving every moment. He was my little buddy. We did library story hours, grocery runs, and everything in between together. I needed nothing more than his smile to know I was doing exactly what I was meant to do.

Our family grew over the years to include three more children. My understanding of motherhood expanded to seeing my role as my children’s teacher, advocate, cheerleader, and guide. My husband is an amazing partner in raising these people and we have had so much fun journeying together as a family. Life has taken us on a lot of adventures, including an international adoption and a move from the US to England. Culture shock, new schools, covid lockdowns, ministry highs and woes––this unit of six has walked it all together. 

Now, I am living another moment in motherhood which does not feel like I expected. That newborn who made me a mother turns 19 today and a few months ago we said goodbye to him at a university an ocean away from home. I am so proud of who he has become. He is ready for this independence and a beautiful story will unfold. The thing is, I am used to being in the front row for this story and it now feels as though I am regulated to the cheap seats. The successful execution of delivering this man to adulthood feels anything but that. It feels like a loss.

After we said goodbye to him, we went to a fast-food restaurant. My husband told the cashier we needed five cups. I thought he was losing it and said, “You mean six.”

“No, we only need five,” he corrected me, his eyes softening as he realized I was on autopilot. Practically speaking, our family had gone from six to five within the last hour.

I took a deep breath and filled my cup with iced tea. There isn’t anything else to be done but to keep moving. There are three other kids to care for, a life to live and I must remember this change is a good thing, but it couldn’t feel farther from good. I am not sure what I thought launching a beloved child would feel like, but just like those newborn days, it is way harder than I anticipated.

At orientation the day before leaving him, most of us mothers wore the same look: wide eyes and pursed lips. I encountered only strangers that day, but we all knew what each other felt. Inwardly, I prayed, “Please help me not to cry.” My prayer wasn’t answered, as I wished several times that day. God knows grieving must take place.

Being back in my life in England now, I wish I could say, the grieving is over, but it isn’t. The day-to-day routine of school runs, work and life is on, but there is a back burner simmering with grief. I watch my phone like a teenage girl waiting for a text from him, resenting the 6-hour time difference which has him asleep or in a class for most of our waking hours. Video calls are fantastic and treasured. He is doing so well, and this is exactly what I want for him. 

I am learning (again!) that what I want doesn’t always feel wonderful. What is best for my kids often will not have a rush of joy attached to it. True love means sacrifice. That is what it meant when lugging a newborn car seat around, never sleeping and wiping bottoms. And that is what it means now when I would love to hear him come in the front door or have him at our dinner table. Motherhood has been a sacrifice every step of the way and watching my kids grow into adults calls on me to give of myself in a new way while taking my hands off everyday involvement in their lives.

I know what my mom means to me, and it is a comfort to know I will always be the mom. He still calls to talk through his problems and for writing emails to professors.  

A dear friend and I had breakfast together shortly after we returned to the UK in the loveliest little café. She is a bit ahead of me in mothering.

“It doesn’t get any easier the more often you say good-bye to them,” she admitted and both of us welled up.

It is such a gift God has given me in this a-few-steps-ahead friend, so I know I am not alone.

“God is our refuge and strength,
    an ever-present help in trouble.
Therefore we will not fear, though the earth give way
    and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea,
though its waters roar and foam
    and the mountains quake with their surging.” (Psalm 46:1-3)

Nothing catastrophic has happened in this launching of my child, but that doesn’t mean it hasn’t felt like a seismic shift. I can only access resilience by finding my safety and strength in God and His lovingkindness in my life. My motherhood, my feelings, or my circumstances do not define identity and purpose. “He says, ‘Be still, and know that I am God’” (Psalm 46:10). By finding quiet for my heart in God’s presence and surrendering to what mothering well looks like in this transition is how I will be at peace with the changes that will continue to come in this journey.

“I guess this will be my last time picking apples with you guys,” he said as our family tumbled out of the minivan at the orchard. 

He doesn’t know it, but I’m determined to avoid the word “last” this year. I am afraid of feeling this next stage of parenting looming upon us.

Something you anticipate for 18 years shouldn’t feel like a shock, but that is exactly how I feel when I imagine what this letting go will mean. Perhaps this change would have felt more gradual if the pandemic hadn’t taken away ordinary life for 18 months? While we were in survival mode, wondering what was going to happen next, this boy of ours continued to grow up. Coming back to normal feels like we are emerging from a game timeout, only to discover the clock has continued to tick. 

Living in England beautifully supports my plan to avoid all the “lasts”. On social media, my American friends with high school seniors are posting pictures of last homecomings, football games and senior pictures colored in autumn hues. Perhaps the British are too demure to make such a fuss, or the culture is just less commemorative than the States.  If we had continued living in the US, basically every moment of this year would wear the caption of “Last _____________;” that is not how it is here. There is not even a graduation ceremony at the end of this school year. He takes his exams and then it is: “So long!” 

In a quiet way, this is nice. Life is ordinary and he can focus on his plans for next year. He’s been accepted to his first-choice university in the States. We are so happy for him. When visiting in February, it felt like a utopia for a young man going out into the world: amazing facilities, Division I sports, a million opportunities and a Chick-Fil-a in the cafeteria. Honestly, I am a little jealous! I know he will have fun, receive a top-notch education, and experience amazing growth. 

Another mother recently told me that having her child go far from home for university would be “too much for her heart to handle.” While I have a few months to walk this out, I am asking myself, “how is my heart going to handle this?” I don’t know if a mother can prepare herself for losing the everyday moments with her child, but I know  simply avoiding the word “last” while hiding my head in the sand won’t  help. A good cry and some processing are in order.  

Gradually, I am realizing this about fear: it isn’t wise to coddle it. Throughout the Bible, I am continually told “do not be afraid,” but I somehow keep fear at my side like a pet shrew. Imagining what might happen (aka worrying) is like stroking it and holding it close. Allowing anxiety to creep into my heart is allowing its pointy, little teeth to bite me. “For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind.” (II Timothy 1:7, ESV). God is saying, “I did not give you that nasty little pet, hand it over to me.” Handing over sounds simple enough, but the human heart is multifaceted and releasing fear often requires the work of sifting through where feelings originate and why they linger.

Analyzing Big Feelings

This son is a treasure to his dad and me, as are each of our children. They are individually special for a million reasons. My pregnancy with this firstborn held the first of a lifetime of trials my husband and I would walk through. When I was 28 weeks along, we learned at an ultrasound he was missing a left hand. Painting the nursery walls a cheerful yellow, I remember wishing I could stop feeling sad about my unborn baby. So many worries, so many fears, literally evaporated the moment we met him. He looked right through us with dark, gibbous eyes that said he was going to be just fine, and we knew better than to doubt this beautiful baby. When he was a toddler and we only filled our days with each other, he used to look at me like he couldn’t imagine loving me more. The feeling is mutual. Being his parents has been the most privileged seat in the house while watching him grow into a leader, a problem solver and compassionate friend. He is well loved. We have had moments darkened by bullying, culture shock, and teenage induced drama, but the better part of most days has been the best.

“You know I don’t want to leave you guys, right?” He asked me during a conversation surrounding fishing poles and how they could survive in the cargo hold of a plane.

“I think this is where I am supposed to go,” he looked to me for reassurance. I totally agree and completely understand, my boy.

Focusing on the Gain

We have intentionally raised our children to not be afraid to do something God is leading them to, no matter how scary it is. I smile to see him doing just that. I pray the Lord’s Prayer over him: “Your Kingdom come, Your will be done on earth (and in my son’s life) as it is in Heaven. . .”  To see him adventure out and follow the path God has for him is what we have been aiming for, and I must acknowledge the beauty in this.

Anticipating Good Things

Not having him live in our house and in our everyday life is a loss we cannot make an accurate account of until it transpires, but focusing on losing without looking forward to all the goodness in store would be foolish.

What God has taught me in recent years through moving away from our homeland is the paramount importance of family. I am more thankful than ever for the way He places us in families. When you move away from your life, an interesting thing transpires with relationships. Like gold shining amid floating dross, a few people stick with you when you aren’t around anymore. Some friends are golden, but all family proves to be. This boy will always be our son. No matter how many miles between us, I will always hold the place of “mom” in his world. I know this, because my parents will always be some of the most special people on the planet to me, no matter where I am. When you live far from family, the times you have are extraordinarily momentous.  A commonplace moment, like a cup of tea with my mom, feels like a trip to Disney World when it is far from possible most of the time. 

How will my heart survive? I will choose to focus on what is being gained for our son by this move. We will be intentional with the remaining months of “lasts.” I purpose to be filled with joy over the fact that we have these days. 

“(Jesus)is before all things, and in him all things hold together.” (Colossians 1:17)

If I have learned anything in my mothering years, it is this: I do best when I fix my eyes on Jesus. He goes before us in this next step for our boy and He will hold us (and my heart) together.

I have a sweet little grandmother who is currently in her 91st year. For all my life, I have seen her worry and pray. I picture my younger self sitting in her honey scented kitchen, sipping a cup of tea:

She rubs her forehead and says, “I know we aren’t supposed to worry, but someone has just got to.” She tells me about a stray cat she had been feeding but hasn’t come back for three days and how worried she is about it. A story about a neighbor she is worried about in the hospital follows this. And she constantly worries about “what is this world coming to?”––What grandmother doesn’t worry about that?

Does someone have to worry? I saw a meme recently which read: “Mothers don’t sleep. They just worry with their eyes closed.” As a mother, I teeter on the tightrope of concern, fear, worry and planning for future chaos. That kind of instability is not what I want for my life, and Jesus flat out tells me not to live like that:

“Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothes? Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?” (Matthew 6:25-27, NIV)

In just thinking over last week, these are some things I have encountered as a mother: 

My oldest son accepted a place for this coming August at a university over 4,500 miles away. I am planning now how to get him care packages across the Atlantic.

My youngest has been crying most days when we drop her off at school. 

My daughter wants to be a surfer, and wetsuits and boards are expensive.

I am having trouble locating enough individually bagged popcorn for a movie night fundraiser at school. 

My second son has a strange lump on his head. He doesn’t know how long it has been there. He’s almost a foot taller than me, so I haven’t noticed the back of his head until now, but I am still kicking myself over it. 

Are we out of bananas again?

We have a new driver in the house. Are we going to be ok with them driving all our kids to church?

I think we have all settled well in England until one child seriously asks if they can move to the US when they are 16.––“Um, no, and now my heart is just a bit broken because you asked that.”

What’s for dinner? With two teenager boys in the house, gone are the days when I can wing it with grilled cheese for dinner.

We try on last year’s coats, making sure we are ready for when it gets cold. Thankfully, only one child needs a new one now, but I suspect we will need another before winter is out. 

A dozen tabs open on my browser; I compare different Airbnb options for our family to get away for a few days after Easter. It is six months away, but I know if I don’t book now, the good, affordable places will be snatched up. This is our last year with my firstborn at home and I want to make some special memories. What will our family dynamic feel like when he is gone? 

Is there a better way? Jesus’ command not to worry about your life feels contrary to good mothering. If I don’t worry about what might happen, how can I prepare? My purse always holds a snack and a lollipop in case we need to convince my youngest to be quiet or brave. Foreseeing chaos, mishaps and disasters is what mothering is all about, right?

If I am upfront with myself, there is no precaution available to avoid 99% of what I worry about:

I worry. . .

. . . my kids will get sucked into this world and the toxic messages it wants to whisper in their ears will ruin their lives.

. . . my kids will grow up to resent us for moving to England. It was a rough road. There are “normal” aspects of American life of which they have missed out. When my son goes to university in the States next year, will he feel like he doesn’t quite get American culture after not living there for four formative years? 

. . . my kids will walk away from their faith. For their entire lives, intensity characterizes Sunday mornings. As church planters, we handle much of what makes the Sunday service happen. Will our kids have a skewed view of church because of our work? As they grow older, they know more about what makes church hard. Will they inappropriately pin that on God, not people, and consequently turn from him?

. . . what emotional, spiritual and mental effects has the pandemic had upon my children? Will they feel paralyzed to make plans and to dream because of the cancellations and disappointment they have faced in the past two years? 

. . . and the list goes on and on. . .

Something in me believes if I worry about it, I am prepared to face it. Perhaps I think I will do better when my child breaks a bone, tries marijuana, or leaves for college if I have first imagined the tensions, ramifications, and implications of those situations. Jesus offers us all something better:

“Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground outside your Father’s care. And even the very hairs of your head are all numbered. So don’t be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows.” (Matthew 10:29-31, NIV) 

We must shift our gaze from what is happening around us to the birds. These little creatures flit about without a care in the world. They literally find what they need each day on that very day. “Don’t be afraid,” he tells me. My perfect Father knows how many hairs are on my greying head and He is caring for me and my family no matter if we experience some falls. He has us.

My grandmother got it wrong about someone having to worry. What she got right is the way she takes all of those worries to God. She learned this practice while raising three daughters on a shoestring, caring for her aging mother most of her adult life and becoming a widow over 30 years ago. Every time we talk, she says, “I do not know how people make it without the Lord. He is everything to me.” We face timed on her 91st birthday and she talked about how she never expected to live this long and how there is not much left she can do. “But, I can pray, so that is perhaps why I am still here,” she smiled. I believe she is right. I cannot imagine my life without the steadiness of her prayers. My precious “Mom-Mom,” as we call her, still battles worrying each day, but she experiences the beautiful, transformational truth of Psalm 84:3:

“Even the sparrow has found a home,

    and the swallow a nest for herself,

    where she may have her young—

a place near your altar,

    Lord Almighty, my King and my God.” 

Living in the presence of God is the only way to experience freedom from the worry and fears of motherhood.

I know what it is to awake to the morning light, wishing it had all been a dream. For a few moments, I allow myself to be hazy. Maybe it was a dream? 

“The unthinkable happened,” my brutally honest mind reminds my heart. 

The death of a precious one, the betrayal of a friend, a shattered dream: the times we hope our longing for unbelief would prove true.  

This is where Jesus’ followers exist when rumours of his resurrection surface. They are swimming deep underwater, hoping to come up and learn the man they believe to be God is not dead.  

Apparently, to believe he conquered death and rose again was just too much to take on. Unbelief riddles the Easter story.  

Early Sunday morning, Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Mary and some other women go to Jesus’ tomb at dawn as an act of devotion and grief. As many women are, they were doers, and they longed to do the proper thing for this man they loved. They gathered spices to anoint his broken body. Undoubtedly, there were few words on the way. A heart incredulous with grief cannot speak. They voiced one concern among them: “How will we move the stone from the entrance of the tomb?”

I wonder what thoughts jarred them when they found the tomb not only open, but presided over by angels? It is no wonder they fell frightened to the ground.  

“Why do you seek the living among the dead? He is not here, but he has risen,” the angel proclaimed.

They came up believing the nightmare was over. Seeing and hearing angels gave them the courage to believe the resurrection plain before their eyes. The pieces of their faith regarding who Jesus claimed to be, fell into place in a way they never imagined possible. They raced off to tell the disciples.

The Disciples

Categorized as an “idle tale,” the men did not believe their report. The disciples knew the integrity and character of these ladies. What kept them from belief in the words of their trusted friends? Much was in the way. Cynicism sits on the throne of one’s psyche when hurt has taken root and sprouted up twisted in the soul. Was there a cultural prejudice in play, because women delivered the story? Perhaps—the basest part of us tends to appear when we allow emotion, anger and hurt to reign.  

Just two of the apostles were open to believing. Peter and John were at least willing to give the report a chance. While the others stayed put in their muddled grief, these men ran to the tomb to experience whatever truth they might find. They sprinted towards the risk of disappointment, because Jesus might have risen from the dead. To allow hope to invade sorrow is a courageous act. 

John

Seeing was believing for John, though he admits in his own gospel, at that moment, there was not a place for the resurrection to fit into his understanding. We summon personal humility to open our heart first to believing and then to receiving a concept that sits in paradox with our previous cognitive revelation. A human soul who surrenders to the realization that God can do something beyond what they might have imagined possesses the sort of faith in which God delights.

Peter

On Friday night, Jesus had asked his closest friends, Peter, James and John, to pray with him as he faced death. The three of them could not keep their eyes open; they gave into weariness and let him down when he had asked for the support of their presence.  

The nightmare began after the time of prayer. Anger surely burned within Peter’s heart when one of their own, Judas Iscariot, led a band of soldiers intermingled with temple leaders to arrest Jesus. The sacred place of prayer, known to Jesus’ inner circle, was desecrated. Disillusionment might be blamed for Peter rashly drawing his sword, cutting off a servant’s ear. Worthlessness coupled with embarrassment were the likely sentiments that rushed in when Peter relived that scene. He didn’t stand capable of defending Jesus in a way which led to rescue. Jesus rebuked him and performed what Peter assumed was the last of his miracles by healing the servant’s ear. 

At the Passover meal earlier that evening, Peter made this brave promise to Jesus: “Lord, I am ready to go with you both to prison and to death.”  

Jesus foretold the exact opposite in response: “I tell you, Peter, the rooster will not crow this day, until you deny three times you know me.”  

Several hours later, fear took over, and Peter did exactly what he declared he would not do. Like a scene from an epic drama, he vehemently denied knowing Jesus for the third time that evening, the rooster crowed, and Jesus turned to look at Peter.

He wept bitterly over his own failure to stand loyal to Jesus. Disappointment with our own selves can be a barrier to belief.

 “We both believe and disbelieve a hundred times an hour, which keeps believing nimble.”  – Emily Dickinson

Luke’s gospel describes Peter “marvelling” when he walked away from the tomb on Easter morning. Does this mean he believed or was he still grappling with grasping the meaning of those grave clothes lying in the vacant tomb?  

The proceeding two days, Peter’s grief must have been the heaviest kind: that which is laced with shame, regret and remorse. Contemplating the reality of Jesus as risen Lord feels intimidating to a wandering heart.

Jesus appeared to the band of the disciples two times before he stood on the beach one morning and called out to Peter, John, Nathaniel and Thomas who were fishing, 

“Do you have any fish?”  

Their negative reply led him to tell them to cast their nets on the other side and they suddenly caught a massive amount of fish. John recognized the power displayed and proclaimed, 

“It is the Lord!”  

At that, Peter quickly dressed and dove headlong into the sea and into a firm belief that Jesus’ resurrection was indeed a truth he could build his faith upon. An intimate conversation between Jesus and Peter took place after their fish breakfast that morning. Vulnerable before Jesus, Peter received the beautiful opportunity to declare his love to his friend and Lord who he had given up for dead. Peter set aside the barricades of grief, regret, and failure to embrace his risen Savior. Jesus did not side-line Peter for his failings, but commissioned him to love his church and gave Peter the incredible experience of leading the growth of the church on the day of Pentecost.

Thomas

Where was Thomas when Jesus first appeared to the disciples that first Easter evening? Ten of the eleven remaining men gathered. Why was he not there? Perhaps he had an obligation or family engagement, but that is doubtful as he wasn’t staying in his hometown. Community can feel too hard when our heart is breaking, and Thomas likely was not up for a gathering of any kind.  

“Let us also go, that we may die with him,” Thomas had stated when the group left to travel to Bethany for Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead.

Based on this snide comment in the face of fear, even a generous character sketch of Thomas might include the words cautious, cynical, or pessimistic. His personality seemed bent to expect the worst, and this can make it a soul-stretch to believe the supernatural.

When his friends assured him they had seen Jesus risen, he did not believe them. He put some protective standards in place for himself with this declaration:

“Unless I see in his hands the mark of the nails, and place my finger into the mark of the nails, and place my hand into his side, I will never believe.”

The trust he must have developed with these men in three years of travel, comradery and experiences with Jesus appears to have shattered with the disillusioning death of this man he believed to be God. The eyewitness account meant nothing to his hardened heart. Unless given the chance for his senses to experience the physical evidence of the resurrection, he would emphatically remain an unbeliever.

It is just like Jesus to meet people when their faith needs him most, and that is what he did for Thomas. He entered through a locked door eight days later and gave Thomas permission to touch his body that was broken for him. 

“Do not disbelieve, but believe,” the Christ entreated him.

Jesus offers the same invitation to humanity today. 

In the United Kingdom where I live, Mother’s Day is celebrated in March.  The end of February brought several emails to my inbox asking if I would like to opt out of receiving correspondence that mentioned Mother’s Day because it is a hard day for many.  Half of my pregnancies ended in miscarriage and one of my children is adopted; the pain and complexities associated with motherhood are not foreign to me.  I understand as we reach the one year mark of a pandemic, many mother’s lives have been lost this year.  However, I would like to call into question the ideal of isolating oneself emotionally to the point of not being able to receive an email from a department store advertising gifts for mothers in reference to a holiday which honors them.   I infer that if such an email causes one to grieve, then perhaps they need to grieve.  Avoiding emotions and processing is not a healthy direction for society to propel itself. I fear for this generation, the emotional discomfort necessary to wade through to believe is a new barrier to faith our ancestors did not have to hurdle.

After the year this world has lived, you may be in the place of waking up each day to a grief that washes over anew and do not feel you can make it through the day. Guilt and shame may be the center of your sorrow and it is hard to believe that forgiveness could be yours. It could be you do not believe God desires a relationship with you based on a convoluted misconception of who God is. Maybe you are wired to expect to be let down, or perhaps this is where life has taken you and the thought of being vulnerable enough to believe Jesus is a Savior feels impossible. No matter who you are, where you are from or what you are walking through, belief can be hard to grasp.  As displayed in the faith journeys of those who walked closest with Jesus while on earth, belief can have emotional, intellectual and spiritual barriers to scale.

“. . . for whoever would draw near to God must believe that he exists and that he rewards those who seek him.” (Hebrews 11:6, ESV)

The reward is worth whatever it takes to seek.

“My Lord and my God!” was Thomas’s response to Jesus’ invitation to believe. Faith requires openness and honesty with ourselves regarding our unbelief and what is holding us there. As he demonstrated throughout the Easter story, Jesus has more than enough grace to handle our unbelief.  Come to him!

One week ago today, I awoke to an e-mail from my daughter’s primary school, saying that the school may not reopen on Wednesday as planned.  When we were on lockdown last spring, hours of the day had been consumed with my littlest one’s education and I inwardly groaned.  That wasn’t how I had envisioned the next week or two, but it hadn’t yet been decided, so there was hope that she would go back as planned.  I was picking up a “click and collect” order of a new school uniform jumper (sweater) for my son, because he has this new habit of outgrowing everything in a few months.  The woman at the till was quite chatty and mentioned that Boris Johnson had yet another announcement that night.  

“Who knows what he is going to say, but I won’t be surprised if we are in full lockdown again,” she said with wide eyes.

I wandered into my favorite clothing store on my way home, not because I needed a thing, but just to browse, because I still could.  I also stopped and bought toilet paper. . .

That evening, I watched the announcement alone in my living room while the rest of my family occupied themselves with other things.  Sure enough, we were going back into lockdown and all schools would be closed until at least the 22nd of February.  I know that it is needful, but it felt like too much.  Everything was going to change drastically for the next two months, and it was too little notice.  

I had to laugh at a very British meme that was promptly posted that evening:  “Monday, you have excelled yourself.”  Indeed. 

When my kids were toddlers, I had a friend who was always giving her tiny kids all kinds of warnings of a change of scene; the end of a playtime, nap time coming, etc.  “It helps with the tantrums.  I would throw a fit too, if someone suddenly told me I had to stop doing what I had been enjoying and do something else.”   She had a point.  The sentiments of my heart for the next few days resembled that of a toddler throwing a tantrum.  Please note I didn’t throw a tantrum, but that is what I felt like doing.  When control is taken away and everything changes with no notice, I totter close to the line of toddler. 

The week progressed and it felt like the wheels continued falling off our wagon:

Virtual school had moments that seemed virtually impossible. There were lots of tears.  

Teenagers are close enough to being adults to feel also like toddlers losing all of their control, which made for some interactions which were not my favorite parenting moments. 

Wednesday manifested great division in the land that I love, but where I don’t get to live and those newsreels felt hard.   My sweet daughter’s birthday was also on Wednesday.  The only excitement we could offer her were favorite foods and a game of badminton in the garden.  She and I got to watch Bethany Hamilton’s documentary, Unstoppable, on Netfix, which was a highlight of the week.  She was such a champ and truly had a great lockdown birthday.  

On Friday, they forecasted snow for the entire day!  “Yes!” I thought.  “Real fun to offer these poor kids.  We can sled for our outdoor exercise and have a ball.”  I even ordered an inflatable snow tube on Amazon Prime.   We had, perhaps, two flakes.  There was no enormous fun on Friday.

There is a new bagel/donut shop in town.  On Saturday, we waited in line for 35 minutes in the cold for them to sell out before we got to the front.

Saturday also brought news of how bad COVID-19 has gotten in our area and the decision to take church to online only was made late in the afternoon, which led to a late night of video editing and uploading on internet that is not the greatest, because our house is older than the aforementioned land that I love.

On Sunday, I just ached to go to church.  I miss those people and the normal we all used to enjoy.

And so, here I am, a week into lockdown #3 for the UK and it has been shakier than where I want to continue to live.  Something that led to stability and strength for me during the end of 2020 was that I read, reflected, and wrote about one Psalm a day on Instagram.  I hope that others found it uplifting, but it doesn’t matter, it breathed life, hope and joy into my soul.  I will never not read a Psalm a day from here on out, but I would like to cover some fresh territory through this winter lockdown.  So, starting tomorrow, I will be “standing on the promises.”  Each day of UK Lockdown 3.0, I will read, reflect and write about a promise that God has made on Instagram.  You can join me here:  https://www.instagram.com/amymullens/