The following excerpt is from the blog of New York Times Best-selling Author, Ann Voskamp. We hope it blesses you as much as it did EW when it came to us.
For the Mother Who Fears Failure
By: Ann Voskamp
I became a mother on the eve of Mother’s Day.
And when they placed that vernix-covered, wrinkled babe into my 21-year old arms that muggy Saturday evening in May, no wave of relief, or ecstasy washed over me.
Being the first to caress another human being’s cheek, I only felt raw, unadulterated, strangling terror.
If I could have ran, I would have.
The newborn baby boy on my chest drowsily opened one eye. That one eye looked into mine…and I choked. This baby — this person — so helpless and fragile, was depending on me—- flawed, deficient, inexperienced me.
Tomorrow, my husband would offer me my very first Mother’s Day card. We hadn’t been married 11 months. I wasn’t ready for any of this.
I had never shaped another person before. I had my own issues, my own baggage. Didn’t someone at least need a license or something before taking home a swaddled — soul?
And I knew, far too personally, how the struggles of a Mother can affect a vulnerable child.
A mere seven days before this, this birthing our firstborn, still lumbering under the heaviness of pregnancy, I had wandered down the hollow halls of a locked psychiatric ward…having left my own mother behind those heavy steel doors. They’d clanked shut. And my mother was behind them for a 72-hour lockdown. One hand on my swollen belly, my other had brushed away hot, stinging tears. I had prayed that her three days behind those doors might somehow bring a measure of peace.
My Mama — she had suffered through an abusive childhood. And I had suffered through my early years as she wrestled to lay her past down. Then in the autumn of her 26th year, with 2 preschoolers at her side, and a 3 week old in her arms, Mama witnessed her 18-month-old daughter, my little sister, fall under the crushing wheels of a delivery truck in our farmyard. Mothers never dream of tucking their baby into a shiny black coffin to bury in cold earth.
The haunting of her past fused with the horrors of her present, took beautiful Mama away from me… to hospitals and psychiatric wards throughout my childhood. About to embark on this rite of passage from needing a mother — to being a mother, I felt all too well the weight of motherhood’s mantle.
How could I, in all frankness, have the wherewithal and competence to lead another human being into the good and right way when I didn’t know the way myself?
That first long night in the darkened hospital room, my hand traced the fingers and toes of this new little person. How could I do this? The lump in my throat grew. Failure was certain. I was going to let this little boy down. I found it hard to breathe.
A Bible lay open on my side table. I ran my hand over the crinkled page, knowing the words that whispered somewhere on that darkened leaf.
… he gently leads those that have young… Isaiah 40:11
In the dark of that room, that was all I had to cling to: The gracious Shepherd would have to lead this little babe and me on.
Could I count on Him to lead the way?
The next day dawned Mother’s Day. My own Mama knocked gently at my door.
I smiled shyly as I pulled back the blankets to reveal her first grandchild. We cried as she rocked him close.
“This is for you,” she quietly offered. I took the bag from her outstretched arm.
Inside, an intricate, homemade cover for our hand-me-down car seat.
“Mama…you must have stayed up all night?!” I marveled. None of us were ready this — this little babe arriving 4 weeks early.
She nodded.
“Oh, Mom, you’ve got to be so tired. You shouldn’t have. Really, Mom.” I reached out to embrace her and swaddled baby.
She pressed her cheek close to mine.
“Relationships cost,” she whispered.
In spite of her own anguishing battles, Mama, time and again, chose to pay the price of relationship. Late nights, she’d poured over study notes with me, proof-reading essays, prepared me for university interviews. Mama had tried. She’d tried to lay aside self and invest into relationship with me.
I gently took our little boy from Mama’s arms and bundled him into Mama’s made-with-love car seat. We stood back and smiled. This little person wrapped in her selfless love. The Shepherd was leading me—through Mama’s example.
Turning to Mom, I managed a laugh, hoping levity would mask the doubts that had me in a choke hold. “Think I can do this, Mama?”
She took my hand and squeezed.
“It’s not that you aren’t going to blow it. It’s what you do with it afterwards.”
Over the years, Mama had often blown it. Though good intentioned, she had missed significant events, spoken harshly, been unavailable… disappointed me. Yet my love for her coursed deep and sure…simply because she had listened to and heard my pain.
And she had humbly owned her failures, apologized for the disappointments, and fervently attempted to pay the cost of relationship.
Mama’s refrain began to massage hope into my scared stiff heart:
Relationships cost.
It’s not that you aren’t going to blow it. It is what you do with it, when you do.
Perhaps there was something more powerful to experience than a perfect Mother: the wonder of a committed Mother who simply humbles herself.
Like that Shepherd who knew the cost of relationship, chose to pay the price, and, staggeringly, “humbled Himself… even to the point of death on a cross” (Phil 2:8).
Out of the ashes and brokenness of our sin, rises the breathtaking exquisiteness of humility and grace, the Cross. And out of the anguish and woundedness of Mama’s life, surfaced a gentle humility and a dogged devotion to relationship. Regardless.
I felt the strangling terror give way to realization. Motherhood does not require, thankfully, perfection. It simply requires commitment and humility.
I was ready now to take our baby boy home and be a Mother.
One last glance around the room — found my first Mother’s Day card sitting on the windowsill.
I picked up the card. I had feared I would never be a Mother’s Day card Mother. Mama had shown me that I didn’t need to be.
The Shepherd leads those with young not to be Hallmark versions of perfection, but rather persevering versions of humility. Grace stands in the gaps.
Mama held open the door with a brave smile, and I nodded sure and carried our son out into the world, underneath is all held by His everlasting arms…
To read more from the talented Ann Voskamp, visit her blog “A Holy Experience”
Thank-you Ann! And, happy Mother’s day to all of the Extraordinary Moms out there…we love being a part of your life!
Julie Clinton the EWomen Team
Their mother was so very grateful to me and kept asking me, “Please do not forgot us” and “Please pray for us.” I am not sure if she is a Christian yet, but the children are learning about how much God loves them and I prayed with her several times today and told her I would continue to do so.
