Moms That Change the World

I glanced at the women around me.  All moms—all here for the MOPs conference.  I felt strangely out of place, like a young kid just pretending to be a grownup mom.  Wasn’t I still that young woman in her early-twenties attending Passion conferences and feeling young and alive and free?  Yet here I was amidst 3000 other moms who spent more time wiping boogers out of noses than being spontaneous and free.

There were moms of all ages and backgrounds.  Moms with six kids and moms with one.  Moms dressed like hipsters and moms rocking ”mom jeans”.  They were all different, but they were all moms.  All of them, even the youngest, had little ones who depended on them.  Their lives were no longer about them.  They couldn’t pretend that they weren’t adults. 

Part of me felt hesitant to even want to fit in.  Being a grownup adult mom isn’t easy.  The life of a mom is lived in the little things.  Instead of leading prayer walks, organizing big fundraisers to end slavery, or living in Africa for a year, they are busy taking out poopy diapers, cutting crusts off of sandwiches, and discipling little hearts.  They are not free to do what many consider the “big” works for the Lord.  The feeling of insignificance or fruitlessness is quick to creep in.

And yet, as I watched these women worship and learn together, I realized how wrong that thinking really was.  After all, the “biggest” and best work we can do for the Lord is the work that He has set before us to do. 

Moms certainly have an amazing job.  They mold and lead the next generation of world changers.  Yet, as I sat amongst all these other women I suddenly realized that our calling was even more than that. 

It was halfway through Beth Moore’s talk when this revelation occurred to me.  Beth was telling the story of her eldest daughter’s birth.  When she finally arrived, she was blotchy, cone-headed, and covered in blood and gunk.  Yet when they placed her in her arms, Beth said she looked into the face of the most beautiful, perfect baby that she had ever seen.

As she talked, mommy hormones swelled and tears formed in my eyes.  I looked around and realized that I was not alone.  That feeling was something that every mom, and only moms, could relate to.  We had all had the very same thought when we held our children, whether through birth or adoption, in our arms for the first time.  Every single mom has a connection to every other mom…simply because we are all moms.

Therein lies our calling.  As moms, we have the unique opportunity to connect with other women of different backgrounds.  We moms have the same feelings and experiences, and we can reach the moms who are hurting or lost or just looking for a friend.  We can reach out to them that they might see Christ in us.

I’m proud to be a mom.  I may not have the freedom and opportunities of many women my age, but I know God has put me where I am and has given me a good work to do.  College students aren’t the only one with the chance to make a difference—we moms can be world changers too.      

Thankful

Tonight my little one played in his bath, jabbering away about something I couldn’t understand.  He reached out his hands toward me and I wrapped him up in his froggy towel, which will soon be too small.  As I put it over his head he giggled and showed his four bottom teeth, coming in slightly crooked.  I reach for my phone to record a video, knowing full well I can never truly capture every precious detail of that moment.

I soak it all in, and my heart hurts.  Suddenly he’s five, and doesn’t want to snuggle.  And twelve and I can’t make the boys like him.  And sixteen telling me he hates me.  And eighteen driving away.  And thirty with a little crooked-toothed little one of his own.  And—oh—my heart feels squeezed and I just want him to stay this way forever.

And yet, I know that can’t be…and I don’t want it to be.  I want to see him grow and develop into the man God created him to be.  I want to see him dream and learn and achieve.  I want to see him fail and persevere and grow.

But—oh—how I wish I could just bottle this moment up and keep it forever.  But I can’t, and the moment passes, and he’s already a minute older.

I get my little one a fresh diaper and put on his cozy pajamas.  I brush his fuzzy, uneven hair—so much like his father’s was at that age.  I kiss him and hug him and his daddy rocks him to sleep.  And I am thankful.

Thankful for the way he sleeps with his arms above his head—like his daddy again.  Thankful for the way he says “uh-oh”.  Thankful for the way he pushes things around constantly.  Thankful that he loves giving the dog a treat.  Thankful for the way he crinkles his nose and snorts.  Thankful for the way he loves the little man in his Duplo tractor.  Thankful for his little head-butts.  Thankful for extra snuggles when he wakes early with sore gums.  Thankful for the way he smears his food in his hair.  Thankful for the way he loves his Daddy, whom he calls “Ah-nah”.  Thankful for this way he falls asleep with his hand down my shirt.  Thankful for the way he loves to bring me books to read to him.  Thankful that he likes to cuddle. 

Yes, I am thankful indeed.