When Mom Just Needs a Good Cry

Occasionally Clint comes home to the kind of house the biblical womanhood books urge us to cultivate—peaceful, joyful, and in order.  Often he comes home to the slightly more frazzled version.  But every now and then he comes home to the blank-faced, empty-eyed, wife-of-exhaustion home.  Last week I had one of those nights.  If I was a punching bag I’d have been entirely flat.  All done.  He found me sweaty and woefully shower-deprived, chopping sweet potatoes in the kitchen, vacantly wondering if one roasted starch could qualify as dinner.  Clint took one look at me and said, “Why don’t you go out for dinner tonight?  I’ll feed the kids and put them to bed.”

For a moment I thought the clouds might part and a dove descend from heaven.  “Are you serious?”  Before he could answer (or change his mind) I was in and out of the shower, running out the front door with soaking wet hair and the first pair of clothes I could find.

“Where are you going to eat?”  Clint called.

I flashed him a mile-long smile.  “I don’t care!!”

For an hour and a half I enjoyed sushi, shrimp, and sweet silence.  But here is a really honest admission—sometimes, even in the oasis, I feel anxiety.  I think it’s because deep down I’m afraid I will always end up back here, in this place of depletion and discouragement.  And I want to grow past that.  After all, I’m an overcomer in Christ.  I have two beautiful children who are watching me.  And let’s be honest—there’s not always going to be a Japanese steakhouse when I need it.

So the question I’ve been asking myself is what drives me to this point?  When I was a teacher there were stressful days, but I never felt like a coma would be welcome relief.  I don’t know if it’s the ultimate answer, but one of the conclusions I’ve drawn is that parenthood is just different from any other vocational calling.  Most jobs allow for a sense of separation.  You clock in and clock out.  You maintain personal boundaries.  You become as emotionally invested {or detached} as you want.

And then along come children, and in five seconds flat they invade all of you, running full speed ahead into your heart, your mind, your life, and occasionally your shower.  I used to think that after having kids Clint and I would still sometimes live like we didn’t have them.  Maybe we’d go on a romantic vacation, or hire a sitter and go out with friends.  And we did.  But what I didn’t realize is that once you have kids, they are always a part of you.  Even when they’re not around physically, you think about them, pray for them, wonder if Grandma remembered to put their toe medication on before bed.  They are woven into your DNA.  It’s surreal and precious.  It’s the reason I cry every time another candle on the birthday cake reminds me that they’ll one day be grown.

And at the same time, it’s challenging.  Kids don’t ask for a portion of your heart or a little bit of your effort.  They ask for all of you.  They need all of you.  When you want to burst into tears because you just had a fight with a friend, they’re right there beside you wanting to know—“Why are you crying?  What’s wrong?  Explain it to me, Mom.  Help me understand this world, Mom.  I’m hungry, Mom.  Meet my needs, Mom.  Be there for me, Mom.”

But here’s the game changer.  You and I have a Parent, too.  And unlike us, He’s perfect.  The Bible says, “To all who received Him, to those who believed in His name, He gave the right to become children of God” (John 1:12-13).  If you have taken Christ at His Word, surrendering your life to Him because you believe He is who He says He is, then you are His child.  Which means you are allowed to run into His arms and burst into tears just like your baby runs into yours.  And boy are the arms of Jesus tender.  In Matthew 23, even as He is rebuking Jerusalem, Jesus says, “Jerusalem, Jerusalem, you who kill the prophets and stone those sent to you, how often I have longed to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings, but you were not willing.”

O Jesus, I am willing.  I am willing to be gathered into your arms.  I am willing to find strength in Your strength (Eph 6:10) and rest in Your rest (Matt 11:28-30).  I am willing—I am longing—to be parented by You.

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