Cultivating Her Heart by Taking Care of Mine

In the early morning minutes before little brown feet find their way down the hall and into my lap, God has been teaching. Calling me back. And up. Reminding me of what really matters in this mother-role.

Heart tending.

Their victories are my victories; their developmental milestones, my conversation piece. But there is a reverse exchange which happens between mother and child, subtle — but substantive.

When I walk past the mirror after I’ve sprinted from the shower to the closet to the vanity and the enemy whispers “five unnecessary pounds” and I have squealing children ready to show me the fruit of their morning chores, the allure to ignore these lies which infect is thick.

Been there before, breathed victory over those old thoughts, but this time my plate is too full, I think.  So instead, I swallow them whole, stuff them deep and scrub dishes, train toddler fingers to write letters, and survive. After all — they need me.

This line, received, is one of many the enemy tosses at my weak defenses, when my pressing into the Father falls second to being a mother. Their inheritance – my spiritual growth today – is threatened, and I am too busy with the immediate to care for the most important.

So in the before-breakfast hours, God whispers this is what matters, as He carefully, tenderly, highlights a myriad of heart-splinters — just like this one, above. If untouched by this Man they grow to be chasms between us. And my children are at risk of inheriting those chasms.

Motherhood is sacrifice. No more choosing what gets placed on the altar, motherhood makes its bed there. But He’s showing me another kind of sacrifice at work. Because I’m tempted to sacrifice the tending of my own heart for the tying of their shoes. Ignorant that my personal growth delays, here, would inhibit their most important kind of growth spurts.

I can pass on a legacy of intimacy or leave them, shirts pressed and shoes tied, to deal with the broken areas they’ve inherited from me.

I want my daughter to breathe Jesus.  Even, perhaps, with shoes tied, and clean clothes.

I want her to know the Man that inhabits her everyday mundanity. I want her to live His freedom over her minute-by-minute flesh.

What good would those clean clothes be, if my inner being is plagued by hidden thoughts — “little thoughts” I rationalize — the ones that stage themselves against the truth of God? The Father offers His touch to my every-single-broken place. Every thought can be restored by Him.

I want fullness. For her, for them, and for me.

So while her eyes dart over newly discovered letter blends, her actions practice obedience, and her bare feet dig deep in spring’s green grass, I press in to Jesus for His offering.

And then what gets tucked away in her time capsule enables her feet to tread further than where my path took me.

He promises. And if I say yes I’ve won her a firm foundation on which to build up: the best thing a mother can give.

Photographs courtesy of Lucy O’ Photography.

Wife to one great man. Mother of four, welcomed home from afar. Discovering Jesus anew – every day. Can’t get enough of that Man. Find me at: EveryBitterThingisSweet

Sarahagerty

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