Tonight we are stuffed into our bed in the usual sardine fashion. This particular night, we are packed into a new arrangement. Sister holds onto small-brother, for the first time in the 9 months since he was born, leaving one of my shoulders free. My body is given a rest from its nightly contortionist act. A small position of freedom which brings sighs of relief, and feelings of sadness welling into my chest. Time passes, and things change, as it does.
Watching them snuggle (an experience they’ve been hinting at, but yet to fully immerse themselves in) warms me, beckons me back to a little bit of life. This is why we had had them so close together. That they might have each other, when our oldest likely leaves home far before their childhoods will end. But the last 9 months have been a taste of chaos I couldn’t previously have conceptualized. Adjusting to three kids has been brutal for me, but it has also been full of a depth of joy that was previously unknowable. This moment, I’m sensing a worthwhile return on my investment; yesterday, I wasn’t sure.
The light dances, glimpses of a red Santa-Claus-adorned mumu flick and fall out of my sight. I am trying to stay present in the wonder of small elbows and fingers dusted by golden rays. But, candlelight always has a way of transporting me back to old realities.
I am sitting in another candlelit bedroom, shadows long. I am looking with curiosity at red prayer candles. The long wicks have been burned down leaving a crop of blackened remnants behind, floating as shipwrecked wood in a sea of red wax. Numbers have been written across the candle in black sharpie. A court date dashed with seeming irreverence across the bloodied body of Jesus, on the cross.
At the time, I think these candles do not shine through my disbelief, but I do yearn for it to be true. What I hadn’t understood then, which I understand now, is that prayer can be powerful, but it is His will be done.
It must be late February, the alien-shape of a baby within a womb swims through this memory. I’m awed at the miracle of life, excited for what is to come, but feeling so very lost. Every day I woke up, just to show up for my Angel, otherwise I felt no other reason to be alive (yes, that’s his name). The memories blur into a nonlinear mess, it doesn’t matter, really, anymore.
I had a conviction when I was newly 18, and full of life (literally), that there was a reason this had all happened the way it did.
As I look at my other children 12 Februaries later, under the shelter of a long blue pillar and a cross staring back at us, I am struck by how awesome God really is. In that dark time of my life, I would become a mother and find solace in His Mother. I then spent over a decade in my desert, being dragged through the intensity of my own brokenness to meet her, and Him again.
The path was wrought with rejection, falsities, selfishness, and pride, but I think God has been trying to show me something for a long time: motherhood is my vocation. It is where I have met God. Where I first felt that I too might be worthy as a daughter, even as a stigmatized teenage mom. Motherhood is often where I continue to meet God, and also, where I’m often challenged to remember God, when I am pulled down by the weight of my own selfishness. The profundity of the journey truly surpasses words, but I will continue to share what has felt like an utter mystery to me.
For now, suffice it to say: I’m learning that conversion isn’t a one-time occurrence. Praise God for children. My kids are how God introduced Himself to me in a way I could hear. It’s the way He kept me alive when I was on a path to utter destruction.
All this, from a blue candle, prancing and weaving my now with my past; showing me the ways the prayers I didn’t even know I was praying, were answered. Reminding me that I, too, have been called by name.
Jess and The Fiat 