How I Know Postpartum Anxiety Is a Thing

I need to tell you about something. I don’t really like talking about it and I’d rather just pretend it didn’t exist.

I much prefer writing on the other side of messes or at least writing my way out of the mess. I don’t want to write where it’s messy and still messy.

{Deep breaths} Here goes:

In the days following Sam’s birth, I felt icky-anxious-raw.  I couldn’t handle loud noises, I was easily overwhelmed, the chaos I used to live in and be fine with seemed to scream at me—every pile, every misplaced toy, every dirty dish. Even the suspense contained in Jed’s favorite show, Octonauts, was too much for me. I couldn’t turn off that part of my brain that could imagine all kinds of worst case scenarios happening to my kids. I got all weepy and crazy-mom over the passing of time and trying my darnedest to soak up as much of each moment as I could. Time seemed to be a purse-thief and I was holding on and tugging back not wanting him to snatch anything from my hands.

I wondered if it was the aftermath of four subsequent miscarriages and then childbirth that left me with raw, exposed nerve-endings to all my emotions. I felt everything more deeply, more sharply, more loudly.

I’ve experienced the postpartum hormonal crash with each child and told myself that I just needed to survive the next two weeks. Those two weeks went by, and I felt better.

But here’s the thing: it’s been nine months, and I have yet to re-emerge as the Amanda I remember.

I’ve been waiting for it to get all-the-way better. In the meantime, I’ve been watching myself cave into myself.

Anxiety will rob you of your life—it will.

A few months ago, I fought off a panic attack while driving through traffic—so I stopped driving in traffic. I stopped going unfamiliar places.

I had this conversation with an almost stranger and brought up something that made her uncomfortable. I knew it was her issue and not mine and that I handled it with grace and sensitivity. But I couldn’t turn my brain off. It kept replaying that scene over and over. I felt physically ill with this deep down shame and dread. So I stopped small-talking with strangers and resolved to meet no one new.

My husband and I have always enjoyed going to the movies together—it’s like one of our things. And I haven’t been able to do it. I tried once—Star Wars, The Force Awakens. It took all my energy to keep from having a panic attack right there in that theater. When we left, all the tension I had from two hours of flashing lights and loud noises and all the suspense-building typical in action movies, well, it all came tumbling out through my tear ducts right outside the downtown IMAX theater.

I have struggled with anxiety before. In fact, I feel like I might be an expert at smothering a panic attack before I need a paper bag. But since having Sam, I am living here, not just visiting. I’m not the same. I can’t deal with messes or noisy kids or the volume on the television being above three-and-a-half bars. (Let’s watch with subtitles, guys. It’ll be fun. A dose of reading with our watching.)

It’s affected my motherhood, my marriage, and my friendships.

I got my thyroid tested and actually wished for something to be wrong because a thyroid issue just seemed to be a more acceptable problem. My pride can deal with a physical problem with a direct solution. Mental illness is so much harder to talk about.

The test came back negative. So I am over here, praising the Lord that nothing is wrong with my thyroid and refusing to believe that something is wrong with me. My sensitivity shall become my strength. My fears shall be my places of bravery. And maybe for the overwhelming things, like dentist appointments and movie date nights… maybe it’s okay to ask for help with those right now.

I am learning to not compare myself with anyone else. My struggles might not look like your struggles and my victories might not look like your victories, but that doesn’t diminish the strength it takes to overcome. Overcoming is overcoming. Period.

My life is slowed down. I can’t move fast. I’ll break. And as much as I hate to talk about this part because it makes me leak tears: I’ll break others—especially those dearest and closest to me. I have had to say no to the things I really want to say yes to. I’ve taken extra time for things like long showers, books, photography, nature walks, and journaling. I have one ministry, yes, and it’s here writing. And I can’t help but see the holy nod of the Lord. Yes. This is where I want you. Maybe your heart bleeds for other things too, but so does Mine. And I’ve got it covered.

Sometimes all this self-care feels selfish. So, listen to this, because anxiety struggle or not, all the women pouring out to their families and communities the whole world over need to know this: Self-care and selfishness are not the same thing. They’re not. Selfishness comes from a place of longing to puff your own self up for your own self’s sake. Selfishness takes and gives nothing back. Self-care comes from a place of longing to be whole so you can wholly love others. Self-care receives so that it has more to give.

I can tell you that I am making baby steps forward. Therapy has been so helpful. Avoiding fears only makes them bigger and stronger, but small victories lead to overcoming. It might be a slow work, but the rhythm to it is grace.

So, yeah. I have postpartum anxiety. I had no idea it was a thing. It might be a temporary struggle, it might be longer. But I am leaning.

And listen to me, dear sister, I’ve said this before: you might feel all super weak tied up with whatever struggle you are facing, you might feel like you are failing at life. But real strength is really in Christ. You don’t have to be strong enough to overcome. You only have to be strong enough to lean on the One who already overcame. 

Dear anxious heart, lean on Him. And you shall be called an overcomer yet.

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers


P.S. In the coming weeks, I will be moving my site to a better program and a better host. It will be a slow process (see post above) and could likely mean a few days of mess on this site. But, if you hate the mobile version of this site as much as I do, hold on. It's gonna get better :)

When You Feel Crowded Out by All the Beautiful Amazing People

Almost three weeks ago, I headed to a writing conference. I went with a book proposal packed in my bag and a body packed with so.much.nervousness. I had this memory playing on repeat in my mind; the one from the night before my wedding where I showed up to my rehearsal and retched in the bushes right as my now-husband went to greet me. Jesus, I will be obedient. I will go. I will try to share what You’ve put on my heart. But, please, please, don’t let me throw up on or near anyone. Amen.

The thing about writing conferences, is that it is easy to feel small—really small—when you are surrounded by people with speaking schedules and their names on the jackets of multiple books.

You can walk into that dining hall where agents and editors all host tables and the hum of conversation can feel like a deafening roar of “See me.” “Publish me.” “Here’s my story.” You can feel like shrinking into the corner and letting everyone else do all the talking because, in all the noise, why would anyone need to hear your voice too?

You guys, when I arrived at this conference, I looked at myself and the message I struggled push onto paper, and I compared it to all the amazing writers who surrounded me. Without realizing it, I was telling God, “I’m not good enough. They are all way better. Why would You need to use me when You are already using her and her and her and her…?”

I came back from that first dinner and cried to my mom (Yeah, I brought my mom with me. I told everyone that I brought her to watch my nursling, Sam. It might have been for me too.) I knew I had to walk up and ask for an appointment with each agent and publisher. But I felt so unqualified, like I already knew their answer… and even more than that, like my book proposal and pitch would be a giant waste of their time. I wasn't just scared of being rejected, I was afraid I was going to be told I was foolish for even trying.

As I shared these fears with my mom, our conversation landed in the parable of the talents.

Some days, I look at myself and see all the cracks I bear—the anxiety, the messy house—my overusage of adverbs and my frequent run-on sentences—I see the way I can barely find time to post a blog, the homemade website with the bathroom selfie picture on my sidebar—I just want to bury the talent and the dreams I have because I don’t think it’s good enough. I don’t think I’m good enough. I think what I have is small.  

I wonder if the guy to whom little was given in the parable of the talents did that. If he looked at the larger portions his colleagues got and thought, I didn’t get as much, so I can’t do as much. My colleagues will do great things with theirs anyways. I’ll just keep mine safe and out of the way.

If you read the passage in Matthew 25 and look for the one reason the one-talent man gives for burying what he has, it might feel really familiar:

“And the one also who had received the onetalent came up and said, ‘Master, I knew you to be a hard man, reaping where you did not sow and gathering where you scattered noseed.And I was afraid, and went away and hid your talent in the ground. See, you have what is yours’.” (v.24-25)

He was afraid of failing. He was afraid of disappointing. He was afraid to risk, because he was afraid to lose. 

Here’s the thing though: the servant recognized the greatness of his master. He knew that whatever his master touched multiplied, that the master got a harvest out of nothing.

Maybe we do that. Maybe we hear God pulling us in a direction, calling us even. And then we look over and see how it works, or how unqualified we might be, or how amazing the people already doing that are. We can over-think and scaredy-cat ourselves right out of what God has asked of us.

Maybe we know that God can do much with nothing, but we fail to include our little bit in the equation of God’s abundant grace.

We can quote that grace is God’s unmerited favor, but, man, do we ever live like we need to be more qualified before we can receive it.

Dear sister (or brother), don’t let fear hold you back. Don’t hide the gifts, the passions, the talents in you. Knock off that whole comparison thing.

Jesus told His disciples, “In my Father’s house are many mansions…I go to prepare a place for you.” I love that, because the thing about mansions is that they contain many rooms and plenty of room.

He’s made plenty of room for you, dear heart.

You don’t have to hide out or step aside. Just follow Him.

Listen, when you presume to know that God doesn’t need you because of what others around you are doing, you are presuming to know the mind of God. And you’ve made a serious error in your judgments because you’ve missed one of the most amazing things about God and His great love:

God doesn’t need you. He wants you.

{I mean, let that truth linger a bit: God. Wants. You. !?!}

He longs to partner with you, walk with you, be more than enough for you.

And If He is full in you, He can be full through you {and every single gap and crack you bear.}

Amen.

Shine on, sister.

I’d love to hear from you! Have you ever felt like this: crowded out and not quite good enough for the dream in your heart?? (Or maybe just tell me what you've been up to, I've missed this place and the people who visit here.)

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers

P.S. I am back to writing over here after a long break. I am super excited to connect with you all again!! I am looking forward to this and to sharing what might be in store for this humble little space on the interwebs. :D

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The Beauty in Our Wrinkly Grandmas

It had been a few weeks. She’d had a massive stroke and subsequent little ones. She’d have days where she was unresponsive, and then the next day it was like she would rally all of her strength. If Tyra Banks and America’s Next Top Model never convinced you of smiling eyes (“smeyes”), Mary Lou would have showed you perfectly that eyes really can smile even when a mouth struggles to. She’d grab your hand with her one good hand and look you long in the peepers. It was like she was trying to simultaneously memorize your face and communicate everything she loved about you. She couldn’t talk, but she’d still force out the most important words: “I love you.” “Goodbye.”

 I think I will forever carry with me the memory of Granma the last time I saw her, her skinny frame heaped up on pillows. I saw the wrinkles carved deep into her face and hands--maybe they’d never looked so pronounced before. She wore on her body the life she’d lived. Aged to perfection, really. A life fully lived.

When I brought Sam over to her, only her second time seeing him, she grabbed for his little knuckle-dimpled hand with her one working hand. Sam gave her a smile, and she took that moment like a lemon drop and tucked it into her cheek so the joy could linger as long as it would.

Beauty is the smooth fresh skin of a baby. Dimples and rolls covering all the possibility and hope of a life just beginning.

Beauty is the wrinkled skin of a 91 year old woman. Loose skin and laughter lines—a life emptied out and lived down to the last drop.

When I first met Mary Lou, I was struck by how when you’d listen to her wide-eyed joy, you’d just know it: God delighted in this woman. I knew she wasn’t perfect, and in some ways her life was messy. But she was walking proof that God doesn’t love us because we are perfect, He loves us because we are His. She radiated the joy of the Lord. She did. It was like this part of her just refused to grow old and crusty. There was always something fresh about her even when her bones were tired. She had a childlike faith and wonder. She was downright spunky. She loved simple things like balloons, flowers, babies and the bright colors of spring.

She was ridiculously generous. She didn’t leave a whole lot behind, but that’s only because she spent her whole life giving it away. She invested in her family—her worries, her prayers, her faith and every extra bit of money she had. Our dreams were her dreams. When I think over the ten years of holding her grandson’s last name and every time she helped push one of our dreams to reality… I can think of one word to describe her generosity: extravagant. She emptied and emptied herself for those she loved, always trusting God to refill.  

 She stayed between the hospital and the convalescent hospital for a month and defied the doctors’ expectations. That seemed just like her. Determined. Like the time she needed knee replacement surgery but refused to get it till after our wedding, just so she could have one dance with my husband. It didn’t matter if her knee hurt, she smiled at Michael like she was five and dancing with him was cotton candy.

And then last Sunday, after a day of scattered rain and autumn leaves, the kind of day where the earth smells fresh and cold, God said it was time and Granma followed Him to her heavenly home.

On this side of heaven, death is hard. We cling to the hope of eternity. Even though we know we must all die one day and we are fortunate for the time we get with someone, death leaves a hole in us. It’s as though we fill the graves we dig not with displaced dirt but with the substance of own our soul.

We know we all must part with our grandmas one day, but how we miss them when they are gone.

Vibrant, beautiful, generous, present, spunky and ours.

We miss you, Granma.

By Grace, 

Amanda Conquers

PS. I know I haven't been posting very much these days. I have a project that I've been working so my posts will probably be sparce for a few more months still. Thank you for sticking around. I value you and pray for you... I really do. I look forward to sharing what I've been working on.


Sharing in this beautiful community of storytellers:

When You Think You Might Not Be Strong Enough to Mother a Strong-Willed Child

The spring of 2013, my husband had just started patrol working nights. We had moved, and boxes were piled up everywhere. If those two life changes weren’t enough, the church we met at, got married at, dedicated our kids at, shut its doors and moved two cities over.

I do not deal well with change. And in the span of one month, it felt like the landscape of my life had completely changed. I struggled with sleep. I felt anxious. Depression settled in over my life like valley fog on a dark night.

About the time of the move, we realized Jed would need to be moved from his crib into a toddler bed, not because we were ready, but because, at 19 months, he was the kid that fought bedtime by rocking his crib until it fell over. It was as if Jed decided he wouldn’t trouble himself figuring out how to climb out of the crib. Oh no, by sheer brute strength and an iron strong resolve, he would bend that crib to his will. 

(I had no idea toddlers came that way—so head-strong and unrelenting.)

That’s about how bedtime went when we moved him to the big boy bed, only there were no longer sides of a crib to push against. There was only Mom. And since Dad now worked nights, there really was only Mom.

And he pushed.

I remember huddling in my living room, tears streaming. It was midnight. And I wondered what kind of mom can’t get her kids to sleep by midnight? I was in that desperate place, the one where my Hail-Mary bedtime strategy was to hide out, cross my fingers, and hope that by some miracle Jed would go to sleep on his own. I had tried everything. I didn’t have any more energy.

I wish I could say there was only one night like that. Nope. If we lived in the time of walled cities and castles, I would proudly tell you that my son has the stamina of a siege warfare warrior. It took two exasperating months of three hour bedtime battles before Jed finally conceded. My sanity, my sleep, my patience, and my pride all lay on the battlefield splayed and bleeding, casualties of toddlerdom.

They say Motherhood isn’t for the faint of heart.

And if you happen to ask, “But what if you are faint of heart?” Well, Motherhood, she laughs out loud and says, “Buckle up, Buttercup. It’s going to be a long and bumpy ride.”

That spring, I was struggling. My family was in transition, and transition feels like falling apart.

As much as I wanted Jed to sleep at a decent time and have a blessed hour of a quiet house to myself, what I really wanted was to help Jed. I wanted to walk him through the transition of crib to bed, of old house to new home, of baby who needs mom for everything to little boy who can do some things on his own. And when I sat huddled in the living room, I felt like I had bled out every last bit of knowledge, grace, long-suffering, gentleness, kindness… and it wasn’t enough. I wasn’t enough. And I was empty. And I was failing.

I couldn’t walk through transition myself; I wanted to be to the other side. And I wasn’t walking my son through the transition; I wanted him to be on the other side.

The last time I wrote here I used this phrase to describe the strength of a mother: The only way out is through. A few weeks back, my friend lent me Surprised by Motherhood by Lisa-Jo Baker (and I devoured it and loved it and highly recommend it), and I love that she said the exact same thing one word different: “The only way through is through.”

Because it really is the grace rhythm we mommas walk: through and through and through. We make it through. Sometimes it looks a bit like clenched-teeth determination and sometimes it looks like knees to the floor and tears streaming.

It’s hard, you know. When you are struggling, when you feel weak, and right there in front of you is this child who you love to the moon and back, with your whole big heart, forever and ever throwing what feels like a month long temper tantrum with a few breaks in there to eat and play.

David says this in the Psalms: “I am poured out like water, and all my bones are out of joint. My heart is like wax; it is melted within me. My strength is dried up like a potsherd” (22:14-15). And I totally get that feeling. Motherhood is this place where you feel emptied out and emptied out and emptied out and there always seems to be more you need to give.

And when you have that moment where you want to just hide your head under the couch cushions, because of that great pull on your heart, you keep going through anyways. And that’s a mother’s love.

The only way out is through.

Perhaps that pull on our hearts was meant to pull us to our knees. And if we let it, it will pull us to the side of Jesus and slow us down. It will get us so that rather than battling our relentless child, we start praying relentlessly for him.  It will get us so that we refuse to move without Him with us. And when lay our “not enough” self at the altar, we are taking up the One who came to be more than enough.

“My Grace is sufficient for you, for power is perfected in weakness” (2 Corinthians 12:9).

You don’t have to be strong. You don’t have to have it all figured out. And it’s okay if you feel like you might be a little faint of heart.

You only have to lean.

Jesus will walk with you, and you and He will walk your child, and two years later when you look back on that season of transition, you will find that your desperate Jesus-clinging walk looks a lot more like strong resolve. Because He really is strength in our weakness and to be a Mother you only have to be strong enough to lean.

Okay, and now since we are called the Body of Christ for a reason, I do believe we were meant to lean on each other too. Will you share with us? Do you have a strong-willed child? If you are in the midst of a difficult season with that child, will you let us know so we can pray for you? Would you share any parenting tips (gently and respectfully) with us?

(And on that note: I covet your prayers. In the transition to three kids, parenting has been pretty messy over here.) 

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers

The Strength of a Mother {and a Birth Story}

I was waiting for it to be time.

I was lying in bed trying to catch some sleep, getting the distinct impression I would not be getting any sleep that night.

In the middle of a contraction, my body quaked and I downright felt my water burst within me. In fact, it so startled me and jerked inside me that I thought I might be opening my eyes to behold my heavenly home.

I called my sister to come for the kids, I told my husband it was time. It’s time as in I am SURE and this baby is coming SOON. We loaded up and sped off to the hospital.

It was back labor; the baby’s head was posterior. Not sunnyside, but against my tailbone. And in case this isn't obvious: yes, it hurt. A lot.

When we arrived at the hospital, they skipped triage and put me straight into the birthing room. I don’t think they felt the need to question whether this was active labor. I certainly didn’t.

I labored and contracted in the bed while it took 3 different nurses and 1 anesthesiologist to insert a saline lock into veins that wanted to run away from them. My arms still bare the poke-marks and bruises.

I kept begging to get off the bed, asking the nurses to hurry up. I just knew I needed to move the baby off my back. I labored for two hours, on the bed, kneeling against the bed, sitting and holding my husband, kneeling over the top of the bed. I struggled to stay on top of the pain, on top of the contractions. When I told my mom I just couldn’t do it anymore, the pain was just too much, she smiled and said, “This is it. You’re in transition. It’s almost over.”

I wailed, “No I’m not! The contractions aren’t close enough together!” I think she might have laughed to herself. (Perhaps it should be mentioned in Jed’s transitional labor, the contractions were on top of each other and I never had more than seconds to catch my breath.)

And then I could feel it, the heaviness, the bearing down.

When it came time to push, all the excitement of discovering boy or girl melted away into a puddle of panic.

It was that moment where I was face to face with my greatest fear. The one that’s haunted me this entire pregnancy: Could good things really happen to me? It had lingered in the back of my mind, even brought about nightmares, that at some point something would go horribly wrong. I felt I just couldn’t face it.

When they told me to push, I cried out, “I can’t!” I wasted a few contractions fighting the urge to push. And when they assured me I really could, through ripping pain and hot tears, I exclaimed, “No, I really, really can.not.do.this! I can’t!”

 And the thing is, no matter how weak I felt in that moment, no matter how much I thought I really just couldn’t, the only way out was through.

Along with my husband, my mom and mother-in-law were my support team.

And the thing is, sometimes I feel like I’m a weak person. I am sitting here in all my postpartum glory a little bit ashamed as I weep over everything, have anxiety plaguing me as my pregnancy hormones leave my body, as I need so much help with everything (that back labor I mentioned, it kind of put my back out).

I had told my husband a few days back that maybe I just can’t handle very much. Maybe I am just a weaker person. Stunned, he looked at me and said, “Amanda, you’re the strongest person I know.”

And maybe we do that as women. Take our births that don’t go as planned and wear it as shame. The last minute decisions to get that epidural when we meant to go all natural; the unplanned caesarian that maybe feels a bit like you are less because you gave birth differently; the Pitocin that was needed to start a labor that never wanted to start; the milk that never came in or dried up too early. The postpartum hormonal crash that leaves us feeling not quite human, maybe struggling to bond with the baby we so wanted, or just feeling completely overwhelmed by life and change and new love.

We chalk it up to weakness. We feel ashamed. And maybe we miss the part where the only way out was through… and we, mommas, we’ve walked through.

And no matter how you went through, you carried life into the world.

And there’s something about sentence that needs to linger in the air:  

You’ve    carried    life    into    this    world.

The instant they pull that baby from your body, something of heaven touches earth. Within you life was formed, and through you life was carried.

And momma, no matter where you are sitting right now, be it struggling to come through a season of loss or knee-deep in laundry and dish piles or worried about whether you are doing it all wrong with the baby who still won’t sleep through the night.

Whatever kind of sudden or enduring life-storm you are sitting in the middle of, whatever the changing season…

This I know, you might need to lean on your friends and your family and your husband… and you definitely need to lean on your Savior. But you will make it through.

The big siblings singing "A Swimming Shark" to baby

Okay. And now I am so thrilled to introduce you to Samuel. His name means “God has heard” and it is through tears (which seem to come very frequently these days) that I get to proclaim the miracle that God heard my cries and saw the longing in my heart. He heard my kids’ prayers and my husband’s. And I do believe and am praying that God will hear the voice of this boy as he grows. Though we walked through a season of loss and sorrow, our bundle of joy arrived early one Sunday morning. (And isn't that a bit poetic?)

Little Samuel is healthy and has the sweetest countenance. We are in love. And in awe.

(Psalm 30:5b)

I’d love to hear your birth stories in the comments. And if you dealt with the postpartum hormonal crash. Help all us mommas know we all do this a little different and a little bit the same and that it’s all covered by His Grace?

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers

Sharing in this beautiful community of story-tellers:

For the Mom Who Finds Sunday Mornings Downright Hard

Photo Credit

Hey, Momma. I see you there, weary-faced, babe sleeping your arms, and beside you a toddler squirming like a worm freshly emerged from the soil. I see you there with your child who still outright refuses to go to his class. I see you occupying the back row, swaying with the crying babe on your hip in the foyer, or practically excommunicated to the nursing room when your baby does anything other than sleep. I see you walking in late, wearing a little bit of shame at your perpetual tardiness. I see you there woman who is wife to the deacon, the pastor, the man who works graveyards, weekends, or overseas. I see you sitting alone, wrangling kids alone. I see you there Momma who isn’t married at all.

I see you there Momma who struggles with wanting to go on a Sunday morning because it’s just so exhausting. I understand how it might seem like you could get more out of your at-home Bible studies than attempting to listen and worship alongside a squirmy kid and a crying baby.

Momma, you might feel like you are unseen, less important, the wild-cry tamer. You might feel like the call to come forward for prayer or communion is for the ones not holding babies. You might feel like sitting in the very back with your kids and guarding the silence is your humble sacrifice to the body of Christ.

But let me tell you something, when Jesus told his disciples, “Suffer not the little children to come unto me” (Matt 19:14), He wasn’t speaking lightly. He was rebuking his disciples. And He really meant little children. Not just the years when kids love going to kids’ church and when they have some kind of attention span. He didn’t just mean the years beyond squirmy, screamy toddlerdom, or the terrible two’s, or, Lord help us, the defiant threenager years. He meant little children. The original Greek word used in that passage, paidion, actually means infant or young boy or girl, less than seven years old.

Momma, when you go to church, you are not just one person. You are entrusted with the care of little lives too. You are entrusted with modeling what it looks like to be a part of the body of Christ, what it looks like to follow Christ. Your mom-job all by itself is a really big deal.

I am not trying to argue that one shouldn’t teach young kids good behavior or that some of the elements of worship are done with soberness and respect. But, Momma, will you give yourself some grace? Will you recognize your value? Will you stop living in fear and trembling of the usher walking up and telling you your kids are being disruptive?

In your arms, you hold an unreached people group and a really great reason to go to church and to think you have to hide out in the very back or cover up the sin nature all babies are born with {and all toddlers kind of throw in your face} so misses the heart of Jesus.

Momma, do you know how precious YOU are to Him? How precious THEY are to Him?

Your kids are not your excuse to stay back, they are your reason to go forward. They are your reason to worship and sing and cry out for Jesus.

It’s not just that there is something about those little years that make us feel tired, desperate and bring out all our own insufficiencies… It’s that when you humble yourself and let your child watch you need Jesus, you both get to be apart of the miracle.

You and your kids see heaven touch your dusty clay earth.

No matter how exhausting of a task it might be to do without a husband, when you walk into the that church, when you hold that child in your arms as you sing out in worship, when you walk up to the front, kids in tow, to receive the elements of communion, when you go down to that altar and kneel with your little people surrounding you, when you pray and let the tears fall as you ask Jesus to meet you where you are, you aren’t the only one going to the foot of the cross. No, you are carrying your babies with you.

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Here’s where I get a little vulnerable and tell you how much this has been my struggle for the past two years. And one I have failed at miserably quite a few times. It’s been really hard to want to go to church lately, hard to go by myself, hard to know my kids will probably beg to sit with me instead of going to their classes, hard to know I am going to have to shush and watch and cross my fingers and hope that no one yells or runs into the aisle this time. It’s hard to not feel like I have a home church yet, to still feel unknown.

I want to just stay home, use my husband’s job as an excuse. I want to throw a pity party and look at all the other families who go and have a husband and a wife and kids whose socks match and hair is brushed. I want to look at the wife who has someone to help her when the boy gets rambunctious. But, you guys, I am finding that when I do it anyways, when I recognize the value and the weight of my mom-job, when I care more about my little people He actually entrusted to me than everyone they might disrupt… God’s grace is just so abundant. He really is willing to be strength for our weak places.

Maybe this sounds weird, but I can hear it… God whispering, “Well done.” I hear it when I’ve chosen to walk up to the front with both kids holding my hands to receive the elements of communion. I hear it when I have knelt at the altar and cried out to the Lord with both kids sitting right beside me. I hear it when I’ve closed my eyes during worship so I could turn my focus to the Lord and open them to find my kids clapping off beat, raising their hands, doing a happy dance, singing.

I just know it. I am modeling what it means to follow Christ. Perhaps, I am doing one better than the teaching they do in the Sunday school class, I am showing them. No, it’s more than that, I am carrying them with me.

I’d love to hear from you (whether you have help from your husband or not because I have a feeling sometimes getting to church is just hard for all of us). Have you ever felt like it was super hard to go to church with your kids?

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers

The Thing About Daughters

I originally wrote this to read aloud at a best friend's baby shower over the weekend. She's expecting her first daughter. {Squee!}  I wanted to share it with you too! 

I’ve heard it said that a baby is a mother’s own heart walking outside her body.                     

And there is something about a daughter that just makes this extra true. 

It doesn’t matter if you are the mom that made a special Pinterest-inspired pegboard to organize an almost shameful-to-admit number of bows or if you are the mom that secretly wonders if you can hack it as a girl-mom when you know how to accomplish exactly zero hairstyles…unless the ponytail counts.

When a little girl comes into your life and calls you mom, she will stretch you, change you, hold a mirror up to your own female self and challenge it.

When she’s little, you’ll watch your daughter full of her child-like wonder, and you’ll remember what it was like: the days of pink and longing for tutu’s and ballet slippers, the way you used to dance on the coffee table and ask for your papa’s attention. You’ll remember how you could make a mud pie, domesticate a jar for your lady-bug pet, and just how much it meant to you when your momma would buy you a twirly Sunday-best dress and then set you on the counter to curl your bangs.

Your daughter will tell you how pretty you are for years. She’ll likely have opinions about your clothes, and might even dig out the bridesmaid dress from the back of your closet and beg you to wear it for your trip to the grocery store.

She will probably sing about everything. You might even catch her singing her own song about how beautiful she is. It’ll melt your heart. You’ll both beam with pride at her self-confidence and cringe at the stark contrast in the way you view your own self through your flaws. You will make it your mission in life to protect her confidence and her beauty. You recognize the value of those things because at some point in your own journey someone or something tried to rob you of them.

There’s the moment you first encounter mean girls at the park. It will surprise you how young it happens, how sharp and diva-like one three-year-old girl can wield the words, “I don’t want to play with you.” And when your daughter looks to you, eyes big and wet, it will cut into your own heart—make you remember all the mean girls you ever encountered. You’ll do your best to reel in your inner momma bear, and you’ll do your very best to brush off the sharp marks those kind of words can leave.

There will come a time when she will confess that she doesn’t like something about herself: her hair, her freckles, her teeth, her birthmark. She’ll tell you how the kids made fun of her for it. It’ll catch you off-guard, because you look at her and you see beauty, you see someone marvelous and full of purpose, someone you love perfectly and wholly.

{A mother’s love is like that.}

She’ll imitate you, watch you, want to be you. She’ll mother her younger siblings, her stuffed animals, her dolls. While boys might want to make everything fight or blow up, she’ll want to band-aide and haircut and comfort.

She is your legacy. One day she will pick up the torch you have held in your own home and she will hold it in hers. She won’t fill her daddy’s shoes, for she’s meant to fill yours.

She’ll notice whether or not you swim in your swim suit, the comments you make about yourself in the fitting room, how you answer when she asks you how much you weigh. But the thing is, what she’s noticing isn’t how fluffy your stomach is or how dimply your thighs or how that mole sticks up right next to your nose… she’s noticing if any of that stuff bothers you.

You’ll relish in the moments where the parenting curtain is pulled back and you see in her a friend. She’ll say honest things spoken from a hopeful heart that will pierce the jaded places in your own heart. You’ll laugh together till your sides hurt, and you will share inside jokes. There will come a day when you would actually prefer to take her shopping with you than enjoy an afternoon shopping without kids.

It will probably shock you at some point, the way you mirror each other. She will battle the same insecurities you did. She is a piece of your own beauty and flaws, your gifts and talents, your sensitivity, the way you used to dream, the way you respond to conflict, the way you process life.

Maybe there will be that moment when she will come home from school with her first broken heart—be it from a boy crush, cruel words, or a failure in sports or academics. She might declare herself ugly, not smart, too short, too slow. And you, Momma, this is your shining chance to fight for her self-worth. You will tell her how beautiful she is, all the little pieces of individual-fabulousness of her that you adore.  When she tells you that you are only saying that because you are her mom and you have to, you will drag her in front of the mirror and declare that you will not leave until she can tell you all the best parts of herself.

Because maybe the world will try to break her down, tell her who she is and who she isn’t, tell her what’s she’s worth and wrap up far too much of that worth in ridiculous physical standards. But that’s why God made you, Girl-mom. You are her very own advocate, the one who knows that deep-down feminine place of longing to be beautiful, of longing to be enough. And you, Girl-mom, you are the one that can be her very own mirror and show her the value of a woman and her own self.

When we think about having a girl, we think of bows, dress up, and tea parties.  But the thing about a daughter is that she’s your very own feminine heart, walking outside your body.

Raising a girl is this glorious chance to fall in love with your own self the way the Father loves you.

And there’s so much grace in the fact that she didn’t come with your baggage, your life experiences, your pain. She is new and fresh and precious. She’s not your chance to go back and relive your own life better; she’s her own person created for His glory. She’s your chance to see yourself differently, and your high calling to advocate for, fight for, pray for and love perfectly.

And maybe this girl-mom thing is a bit terrifying, you’ll want to protect her from all the things you can’t control. And maybe it will be hard. But you can trust Jesus, walk with Him, lean on Him.

Because, yes, she will face pain and heartache, but you, full of the Spirit’s leading, will be there to guide her through it.

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers

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