I stare at my body in the mirror. I see the huge pink scar between my hip bones. I see the almost-faded scars where my tubes were in me. I see the enlarged veins in my hands from all the needles they poked in me. My body carries stories. I learned to be brave because I had to be brave.
It’s taken a while for me to write out all that happened. I wanted to write a different story. I wanted to write about the story where I heroically birthed my baby despite the intense struggle. The story where I gathered strength as a new mom from the rush of birth hormones surging through my blood. The story where my hopes came to fruition.
But that story is not my story, and today I am actually thankful that is not my story. My story is one of acknowledging my limitations. Of discovering peace in the unknowns. Of being chiseled away from my own sense of self-sufficiency. My story is where God met me. God often meets me where I do not expect to find myself. My difficulties rescued me from the heartache of being amazing in my own eyes. It is beautiful to experience motherhood with an overwhelming sense of how much help is needed. It is beautiful to realize I can still give of myself to my child when I think I have nothing to give. Sometimes a gift can be a hope, a desire.
Henry, I wanted to give you a mama full of strength, but instead I give you a mama who has been emptied, who has hugged you through tears and prayers. It is better for me to give from my lack than from my fullness. It makes me awake to the fullness of God poured out for me. I want to be a mama who knows she is not everything, but she can always give something.