From the time I was a little girl, I remember my mom saying, “Being a mama is the hardest, best job in the world.” And as a kid, even as an adult really – before our twin daughters came – I heard only the “best job” part, tuned the rest out completely. Because my only real dream in life then was to be a mama. But after our girls came, the “best job” part faded into the background somehow, and I lived only the “hardest” part for quite some time.

Maybe you’d think that if you’d buried a child, the ones who were still alive could never rattle you, never get under your skin, never be too needy or too moody, that you would only ever feel gratitude and love and grace for them. I thought that, at first. And then – real life. Only what every new mama faces, mind you – sleepless nights and breastfeeding round the clock, the emotional drain of not knowing what in the world you’re doing, realizing that these little people are helpless and entirely dependent upon you – an incredibly imperfect “kid” masquerading as a adult.

Almost overnight, the only “me” I’d ever known began to disappear, emptied right on out, in between changing diapers and giving baths, laundry and snuggles and spit up. And for a time – even though I dearly loved our girls – I knew only fogginess and hollowness. Minutes seemed as hours, days seemed as years. I was ever so lonely. Berated myself often – that I should be feeling gratitude, not self-pity, and joy, not sorrow. Often tried to pick myself up by the bootstraps, so to speak, words bouncing around deep within – “Others moms do this and are fine. What’s wrong with you?” and “This is what you always wanted. You signed up for it and now there’s no way out” and “You thought you’d be good at this mama-ing gig. Turns out, you’re not.”

Looking back through the lens of time, I see that, in this season, a battle was raging. And there I was, completely unaware of its very existence. Probably the worst position one can be in. Because if you are unaware of the battle, how can you possibly know how or where or what to fight?

And so, I muddled through. I knew enough to be constantly begging for help, for Him to meet me and fill me and be everything I couldn’t be. And again, I sought words to sustain me, mostly words from the book of Psalms. Words here because they were short and simple, from someplace deep down. And so very many were pleas for help, crying out for Strength and Joy and a Place to take Refuge, just like me.

So day after day after day, that first year of motherhood – as breastfeeding decreased and table foods increased, as sitting changed to crawling, and crawling to walking, while I was still figuring out how to fit in a shower for myself on occasion – I drank in the Psalms. And I began to see something of a pattern in many.

First, an acknowledgement of who God is, and hence, who I am not – a reminder, a warning, an encouragement.

“The heavens declare the glory of God, and the sky above proclaims His handiwork.”

“The earth is the Lord’s and the fullness thereof, the world and those who dwell therein, for He has founded it upon the seas and established it upon the rivers.”

“Clap your hands, all peoples! Shout to God with loud songs of joy! For the Lord, the Most High, is to be feared, a great king over all the earth.”

Next, there was always a recognition of one’s own feebleness, one’s own need, a pouring out of oneself, a begging to be saved from this valley.

“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Why are You so far from saving me, from the words of my groaning? O my God, I cry by day, but You do not answer, and by night, but I find no rest.”

“How long, O Lord? Will you forget me forever? How long will you hide Your face from me? How long must I have sorrow in my heart all the day?”

“Be gracious to me, O Lord, for I am languishing…My soul is greatly troubled. But You, O Lord – how long? Deliver my life; save me for the sake of Your steadfast love.”

And finally, conclusions which were almost always expressions of Hope, following right after the hard, so often beginning with the little word, “but.”

“But I will sing of Your strength; I will sing aloud of Your steadfast love in the morning. For You have been to me a fortress and a refuge in the day of my distress. O my Strength, I will sing praises to You, for You, O God, are my fortress, the God who shows me steadfast love.”

“But you, O Lord, are a shield about me, my glory, and the lifter of my head. I cried aloud to the Lord, and He answered me from His holy hill.”

“But let all who take refuge in You rejoice; let them ever sing for joy, and spread Your protection over them, that those who love Your Name may exult in You.”

 

And so, yet again, He carried me through a valley with His words, His Word. Nothing of myself, but always, only, ever Him.

Because our girls, they grew, and mostly things got easier. I was able to slowly, slowly climb back up to where everything didn’t look quite so dark anymore, looked more like the world I remembered from before becoming a mama. Time didn’t drag as much, and I made new mama friends who lifted my eyes upward, to the Mountaintop, and who told me to speak only words of gentleness and kindness to myself, to give myself grace. And my mama came to visit and told me to do something every day that brought me Joy, even if it was only cutting a flower or drinking a cup of coffee or standing in the sunlight coming in through the window.

And though I didn’t know I was fighting a battle, others did. And they lifted and carried me, fought on my behalf. His victory – and hence, mine also – always guaranteed.

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