Today, it’s an honor to introduce you to Jessica who’s sharing her unique journey to and through motherhood as part of our month-long guest post series, Special Mamas. Jessica has been grieving the death of her mom for nearly two decades. She’s a wife and mama of little ones now, but her mama-less heart still aches for the everyday presence only a mom can fill. I had the great privilege of meeting Jessica at a writing conference last fall, and have since made it very clear to her that I hope our paths keep on crossing for many years to come. Jessica is a beautiful writer with a beautiful story and a huge heart. Please extend a warm welcome to my writing sister, Jessica. 

It frightened me how the grief choked me to my core – 38 weeks pregnant, lying on my bed fending off a cold and all the questions rolling around in my brain. Sobs rocked my body and threatened to crack me down the middle.

My husband tenderly asked me what was the matter and after what felt like a short eternity of tear filled gasps I managed to lisp out, “I just miss my mom so much. I want her to be here to take care of me.”

My mom didn’t die last year. No, she died when I was twelve. I’ll be thirty-one in two weeks.

We never stop needing our moms. We just don’t. I’ve ridden the waves of grief for nearly two decades now and I can promise you that nearly every day I have found a reason to need my mama.

Now to be fair there are a dozen women who have come alongside my motherless heart and loved me well. My mother-in-love is one of these dear women and I never want her to think otherwise. She is kind and dear and medicine for my mama-less heart.

The tangible loss of a biological mother? It’s like having the umbilical cord cut all over again, but this time you feel it and it drains you hollow in all the mother needy places.

The grief isn’t always so heavy. No, grief finds you in weakness. It finds you when insecurity hits and it makes you feel like half a person, less than a woman, a mother with a limp. It makes you doubt your ability to mother well.

Lisa-Jo Baker writes often about children walking around “like so much eternity with skin on” and that is true to be sure. But mamas, we love like eternity with skin on and when we leave it can feel as if the very presence of love leaves along with us. Our work, the mundane of it all, is eternal in the richest most important sort of way.

I see this clear on a Tuesday afternoon. My three year old daughter calls for me from her room as she wipes sleep from her post-nap eyes. I walk into the room and scoot her over to make room for myself and a few quick snuggles before the day moves on.

Out of the blue she asks me if I miss my mom. I’ve talked to her about my mama and explained things in the best way I know how to her little heart and mind, but this question blindsides me. Tears well immediately. She brushes her tiny hand across my cheek and I exhale deep as they fall.

She looks at me with her brown eyes wide with the questioning and tells me words that hitch my breath in my chest, “Don’t worry mama. We’ll find her.” I guess in all my explaining I never realized how confusing the phrase “I lost my mama” could be to a three year old.

The truth is I do find her.

I find her in the strangest places. I find her up around my daughter’s eyes when she laughs. I discover her in myself when I deliver a meal to a friend in need and recognize all the good stuff about my mama replicating itself in me. I glimpse her in the mirror when I put my makeup on and I wrestle the thought of “Am I becoming my mom?”

The mama I lost has become the mother I’ve found by becoming a mother. The doe-eyed daughter with the questions has been my mama come full circle in the sweetest of ways.

What I once thought disqualified me from motherhood, the not having a mama, has become the fire in the furnace of my daily calling. Motherless mothers embrace their calling in a uniquely passionate way. We know the power of motherhood.

In all the mundane places of my day there are pieces of my mother. Her life with Jesus stretching out into eternity and my scraping to find Jesus, or rather allow myself to be found by Jesus, collide in the daily. I wonder how I’ve lived so long without her, but the truth is I have never been without her or Jesus. My knowledge of the two so closely mingled because she knew the power of loving well and giving me heaps of Jesus along the way.

There is a fear that comes with motherhood. It is the fear we will have to leave our loves early. The most frightening part is we have no control over whether or not this happens. We have to love into the darkness, the unknown, the unexpected breaking of living in a fallen world.

We have to do this because someday, most likely, we will leave our children behind. The most important question we can ask ourselves is, “What are we leaving behind for our children?” On those days when your shirt is soaked from the sink full of dishes or the van is full of fast food bags and sweaty jerseys, lean into your calling.

It matters.

Motherhood is not a momentary calling. It is a work of eternal value.

Believe me, I know.

Jessica

Jessica Leigh Hoover is a wife, mama, writer and grace lover. She lives in the hills of North Carolina but has the red dirt of West Africa in her soul. She blogs about her belief that grace is the biggest kind of brave and how life is messy and beautiful in the living, losing and loving. Her favorites are Jesus, family, chocolate, vintage anything and British accents. You can find her on her blog, facebook, twitter, pinterest, and instagram for more.

Jessica & Baby Photo Credit: Sarah Siak Photography

 

This post is part of a month-long guest post series titled Special Mamas. The series runs all May and is in honor of moms who have unique journeys to and through motherhood. To read all 13 posts in the Special Mamas series, CLICK HERE and you’ll be directed to the introductory post. At the bottom of the post, you’ll find all guest posts listed and linked for easy reading!

Today, it’s a pleasure to introduce Jackie who’s sharing her unique journey through motherhood as part of our month-long guest post series, Special Mamas. When I extended an open invitation for guest posts, I assumed this series would attract a certain “type” of person, a certain “type” of writer, a certain “type” of story. So when I received Jackie’s survey indicating interest in writing for the series, I was caught a bit off guard. After a first glance at her story, I wasn’t sure if it was a fit for the Special Mamas series. I promptly contacted Jackie via email, shared my questions and concerns, directed her to my blog vision, and told her I needed a little time to process and make sure this was a fit. Jackie was responsive, respectful, professional, open, honest, and friendly in her communications. Ultimately, I decided that I honored Jackie’s story and was open to her sharing it as part of the series. Having read through Jackie’s post several times now, I suggest you read it slowly and thoughtfully, with an open mind. As far as I can tell, if you miss some key sentences, you may miss the true heart of her story. Jackie’s story may be different than yours. But this is her unique mothering journey, this is her unique experience of life. Please extend a warm welcome to Jackie. 

How many special mamas are there who don’t have children or don’t have their children with them?

All good stories start with a once upon a time, don’t they? This one is no different. Once upon a time, I was in my early 40s and I came to admit that my relationship with my daughters’ father had run its course. Many good stories also have villains, heroines and heroes. This one doesn’t. This one is delivered with acceptance of and for all involved.

Making Difficult Decisions

Divorce can be an emotionally charged and highly volatile place often experienced in pain, despair, fear and distrust. Ours certainly was. Both of us made errors of judgement because of our love for our girls. Ironically, that very strong feeling of love pushed us into opposition as we came from a place of fear, and we fought to prove our love was better than the other. This clearly wasn’t love in action. Yet at the time, it seemed to be.

Our girls were caught in the middle of what must have been a frightening and uncertain storm. I could have stopped the storm by doing what I was told to do.

There are choices you must make as a responsible adult to your children. Sometimes these choices are so challenging that you don’t want to make them. I felt both my options were unthinkable and I was stuck, smack bang, between a rock and a hard place and yet, one of these choices had to be made.

These were my options:

• forego my own life and soul and in the process inflict my misery on our children.

• take the unthinkable steps and let go, allowing them to live a more stable and secure life with their father.

I tried, but couldn’t find a third option. Into the mix I threw thoughts about what’s best for the greater good, for the girls, for my ex. I lay awake for weeks fighting an internal battle. I could feel my heart breaking, the tears pouring down my face, soaking the pillow. I knew there would be consequences whatever I did. The answer eventually came.

Solomon’s Wisdom Held the Key

My guidance came from King Solomon. I remembered the story about two women fighting over who was a baby’s mother. No agreement was going to be reached and so he said he would have the child halved with a sword so they could both have a part. At this point, one lady shouted out, ‘Give the child to her, just don’t kill it.’ Solomon promptly gave the child to the lady who had shouted. He knew that the mother of the child would be willing to let it go in order for it to live.

To many people, I made the wrong choice. I was told that as a mother I owed it to my children to put my life on hold until they left school. If I’d left it till then, I doubt they’d have had a mother.

It took me a long time to get over my guilt and shame of not being what society deems a perfect mother. It took me a long time to get over the pain of the girls belief that I had abandoned them. The girls (who have grown up and attend university) and I now have a good relationship with much love and understanding. I feel certain this will continue to improve as they continue to mature and ask different questions. No question will ever be left unanswered. I don’t ask their forgiveness. It was forgiveness of myself which allowed our relationship to continue.

The Often Hidden Special Mamas

As part of my healing process, I began to ask questions about mothering. It lead me to surprising places and answers. As I researched and interviewed women around the world, I discovered just how different mothering was from being a mother. It became obvious to me that there is no one special mama, nor is there a mama mould from which we are made. This series of posts is highlighting that perfectly. Each of us is different, because as women, as human beings even, we are different.

My experience of mothering began to take on a new form, and a new meaning. There are special mamas at your place of work, in caring environments, in the natural world, in the creative fields, in fact everywhere you look. Each project and work of love delivers a special mama. The women concerned may not be a mother to a child, but they know how to express their mothering wisdom. Mothering is learning that life is natural and cyclical. There’s a time to hold on, and a time to let go – not of the love, but of the creation. So it is as a mother, too.

While all mamas are special, not all are understood, let alone wanted. I used to feel that I was one of those, one of the ‘bad’ ones. I learned that I had to find a way to use my unique mothering wisdom in different ways, with different people and to expand upon my previous beliefs of what mothering was. I learned about the ‘Other Mothers’ we’ve all had and largely ignore – those women whose influence has helped shape us. I’ve learned that mothering is a community effort and there are too many of us who have felt isolated in our own challenges and shame. I have created the antidote, the get-out option so that no mother or daughter has to feel ‘less than’ ever again. That is my special mama offering.

Jackie

Jackie Walker is the Founder of The Mothering Revolution at themotheringrevolution.com. Her passion is encouraging women to ‘declutter’ their relationship with their own mothers. The Mothering Revolution introduces communities to counteract mothering in isolation, the aim is to recreate the old African saying ‘It takes a village to raise a child’ by reclaiming each woman’s mothering wisdom and unique expression. Find Jackie on Facebook at www.facebook.com/TheMotheringRevolution and Twitter at @JackieWalker. 

This post is part of a month-long guest post series titled Special Mamas. The series runs all May and is in honor of moms who have unique journeys to and through motherhood. To read all 13 posts in the Special Mamas series, CLICK HERE and you’ll be directed to the introductory post. At the bottom of the post, you’ll find all guest posts listed and linked for easy reading!

I’m pleased to introduce you to Susan who’s sharing her unique journey to and through motherhood as part of our month-long guest post series, Special Mamas. Susan experienced “typical” American family life with a husband and three boys for many years, but unexpectedly found herself a widow. She remarried a sweet and loving man named Tom who had children and grandchildren of his own. Today, Susan is sharing some insight about her experience of their blended family. I appreciate Susan’s post because it sheds light on what blended families call one another when traditional “names” and “titles” are not obvious. I also appreciate this post because it reminds us that at the end of the day, what really matters is love, respect and relationships. Enjoy, friends.

I have been a Mom since 1975 when my first son, Joseph, was born. His birth was followed by a second son, William, in 1978. Lastly, another son, Michael, in 1982. I think my life was pretty much typical for most American families. A loving married couple raising their children. I assumed that my life would go on with the boys growing up, eventually finding their future mates and if we were blessed, we would have grandchildren as we moved into our retirement years. Alas, this was not to be. My husband suddenly passed away just two weeks before our 30th wedding anniversary. I was 50 years old and my sons were 27, 24 and 19 at the time of his death. My Christian faith gave me comfort as I adjusted to being a widow and continued my career as a nurse working in a busy emergency department.

I then met Tom, and my life changed yet again. We married on January 10, 2004. This is where my story of being Mom and Grandma to a blended family begins.

When we married, I became “Mom” to an adult daughter 14 years younger than myself. Susan was already a grandmother, her daughter Courtney was only two years younger than my son Michael. Tom also had a son, Steven, who was married and had two children. It would be nice to say it was a happily ever after story from the beginning, but that would not be true. For even though Tom’s wife had passed away in 1997, his children and granddaughter had a hard time dealing with the fact that their Dad/Grandpa had remarried. There was a cool, aloof attitude from Steve & his wife. Courtney would only communicate via her Grandfather. It is hard to explain to someone that a person can still love and remember their deceased spouse yet fall in love again. I knew not to expect immediate affection, but I was not prepared for actual resentment and dislike. Tom and I were at a loss as to how to handle the situation. We decided that the best way for us to communicate our love and concern for all of our children was to remember that the greatest thing is LOVE. Tom and I continued to stay in touch with his children even though they were all living out of state from 2006 to 2014. We were there for them, to listen to their concerns, offer advice if requested, celebrate their joys and share in their tears.

There were ups and downs as Tom and I established ourselves as Mom and Dad to my sons and his children. Two of my sons and their wives called Tom by his first name, and yet, if they are introducing him to a friend, he is referred to as “My Dad.” My youngest son calls him “Pop.” I loved Tom’s family and my heart wanted them to love me in the same way. In my mind, that equated to being called “Mom” and “Grandma.” I needed to realize that the name I desired to be called meant little if there wasn’t affection associated with it.

Tom and I were married almost five years when his adult granddaughter was visiting with her husband and baby. There were many family events during those years with me in the role of Mom and Grandma. And yet, to my surprise, Courtney was still struggling with how to address me. I approached her and suggested that since she called Tom “Grandpa,”  it would be nice if she called me “Grandma.” This was my way of reaching out to her. Much to my surprise, she replied “I’m not comfortable doing that.” My feelings were hurt. I loved Courtney as my granddaughter. From my point of view, I had just been rejected. I paused and said, “I don’t want to be addressed by my first name only. I am more than just a casual acquaintance; I am your grandfather’s wife.” Then it was time for me to reassess my thoughts and expectations. What is in a name? Shouldn’t I look more closely into the actions of my newly acquired family? Steve was still distant and cold, yet he called me “Mom.” Courtney was sweet and loving, but couldn’t bring herself to call me “Grandma.”

It was time to take it to the Lord in prayer. I prayed that the Lord would “Open the eyes of my heart.” I needed to see this situation more clearly. The end result: I am Susan. I am Tom’s wife. I am a Mom. I am a Grandma. I am a Great-Grandma. I know now that what’s in my heart is what’s important, not what name I am called. I know now that I can’t make someone like me, love me or anything in between just because I care for them. That has to come from them and I am okay with that, too. I know now that there are different strokes for different folks. Not all families have the same ways of addressing each other. What is disrespectful in one family is perfectly okay in another. Today, we are a blend of different cultures and generations coming together. Tom’s granddaughter, Courtney, and my daughter-in-law, Jasmin, are the best of friends. Tom’s great grandchildren are close friends with my grandchildren. They don’t care who is their “real” Grandpa or Grandma. All they care about is the fact that they love each other and have a great time together.

P.S. I have given some thought to why I had these expectations. I am the second generation born in this country on my father’s side. His family was from Germany and Poland. In my father’s family, only immediate peers (such as a friends or cousins in your own age group) were called by their first name. All other adults were called Mister, Miss, Mom, Dad, Aunt, Uncle, Grandma or Grandpa. When I referred to my grandparents in conversation, I called them Grandpa and Grandma Kepple, or Grandpa and Grandma Beck. We never called or referred to my grandparents by their first names. These were titles of both love and respect.

Susan

This post is part of a month-long guest post series titled Special Mamas. The series runs all May and is in honor of moms who have unique journeys to and through motherhood. To read all 13 posts in the Special Mamas series, CLICK HERE and you’ll be directed to the introductory post. At the bottom of the post, you’ll find all guest posts listed and linked for easy reading!

It’s a great pleasure to introduce you to Amanda who’s sharing her unique journey to and through motherhood as part of our month-long guest post series, Special Mamas. I met Amanda in January on a sponsor trip to the Dominican Republic with Compassion International. We connected richly and authentically on multiple occasions including a bus ride, a home visit, and a dinner. Amanda is the one who agreed with me quietly in passing that our lunch with mamas and babes was like heaven. Amanda is the one who sought me, found me and hugged me big when I was trying to gather myself that morning I completely lost it. Needless to say, we became fast friends and have stayed in touch via Facebook ever since. Amanda is one of the biggest hearts I’ve ever met. She’s mama to one sweet boy and “madrina” (Godmother) to eight children through Compassion International. Please welcome Amanda. She’s one very special mama.

If you had asked me in college what my life was going to look like, I would have told you that by my mid to late twenties, I would be married and have two children. As is often the case, God had other plans.

There are two things that you should know about me. The first is that my whole life I’ve wanted to be a mom. The second is that in my early teen years I had very irregular periods. My OB at the time told me there was a slight possibility that I might have trouble getting pregnant, but there was no way to know until I actually tried to get pregnant.

My husband and I got married when I was 26 years old. We decided that we wanted to wait a little bit before starting our family. To have some time together before we had kids.

In my perfect world, I wanted to have one child and then adopt a little girl from China. Long before I met my husband, I had heard about a Chinese adoption agency and truly felt like it was something God was calling me to do.

When my husband and I finally decided that we would start trying for a baby, things didn’t seem to be going well. I saw my OBGYN, who quickly sent me to see a fertility specialist. I was diagnosed with Polycystic Ovary Syndrome (PCOS). Basically, my body wouldn’t ovulate. No ovulation, means no egg. No egg, means no baby. And so I began to journey down the road of infertility.

I began the process of taking hormones to try to force my body to ovulate. It was an emotional roller coaster for months on end, complicated by the fact that I have biochemical depression. I was SO angry with God! Why would He give me such a desire to be a mother and then not allow me to be?!? It made no sense to me!

And then it happened – two pink lines! I was FINALLY pregnant! I had a smooth, easy pregnancy. However, my son decided to make quite an entrance into the world! He arrived June 13th instead of July 13th via emergency C-section. I was fully dilated when we got to the hospital and he was breech. He was coming so quickly that I had to be put under full anesthesia.

But God was so faithful! Although my precious baby Jonah was only 4 pounds 15 ounces when he was born, he was perfectly healthy, only spent three hours in the NICU, and was able to come home with us. I could hardly believe it — I was a mom!

In the months that followed, I quickly began to realize that I was not going to have any more children. Pregnancy had changed my body chemistry so much that I went into a deep depression. It took the next two years for my doctors to figure out what medications would get me to a stable place. I knew that for my family’s sake, I couldn’t risk going into another depression just to have another child.

And that’s when the calling to adopt that I had heard so many years ago from God started running through my head. But every time it came to mind, I just felt so overwhelmed at the thought of dealing with two children! So for years I carried this horrible guilt that I wasn’t doing what I felt like God had called me to do.

When my son was about nine months old, I was finally able to get my dream job. I had always wanted to work in ministry and was able to get a job working in the call center at Compassion International. If you’ve ever worked in a call center, you know that it is one of the worst jobs to have. Yet, I was making outbound calls asking for money, and I LOVED my job!

My husband and I had already been sponsoring a little girl in Guatemala for a few years. But when I began working at Compassion I found out about the correspondence program. There are some sponsors who are unable or unwilling to write to their children. So they give financially to support the child and a correspondent is assigned to do the letter writing. I immediately signed up for a correspondent child. And then another. My husband suggested that I had enough, but I told him that since it didn’t cost anything, that I would have as many as I darn well pleased!

One night, after I had been working at Compassion for several months, I was scrolling through my news feed on Facebook and clicked on a link to a random woman’s blog. The only reason I clicked on it was because she mentioned Compassion. She was struggling with infertility and was in the process of adopting from China. I clicked on another link which took me to the Chinese adoption agency’s website — it was the same agency I had heard about all those years ago! I began reading through the requirements to apply to adopt. As I reached the section about health requirements and read that you could not be on medication to treat any type of mental health issue, in that moment I quietly heard God whisper, “I don’t want this for you anymore. You will have many children, not by blood, but through Compassion.” And immediately this immense weight was lifted from my shoulders! I knew God no longer wanted me to adopt. He wanted me to be a “mom” to Compassion children who simply needed letters letting them know that they are loved, cared for and prayed over!

Writing to these children has been such an incredible blessing to me! I tell each of them that I NEVER want to replace their mothers, but that I hope they can think of me like a second mother or “madrina,” Spanish for Godmother. I make sure they know how much they are loved and encourage them to dream big and that they can do anything that they put their minds to! I had no self-esteem as a child, and I never want these kids to feel the way I did.

This past January I traveled on my first Compassion trip to the Dominican Republic, which is where I met our dear Amy. While I was there, I had the opportunity to meet a little boy with whom I correspond. His name is David and he is 10 years old. When David was assigned to me in April 2014, he had been in the program for two years and had never received a single letter! Between April 2014 and January 2015, I sent him four letters.

On the day I got to spend with David, I asked his tutor, “Have you seen a change in David since he started receiving my letters?” She looked at me and very firmly said, “Yes, I have!” She went on to explain that before my letters David was very shy, withdrawn and quiet. But since receiving my letters, he seemed so much happier, more open and less shy. Wow! I was blown away! How amazing that a few simple words and some stickers could make such a difference to a child! But to these children, a piece of paper and stickers translates into, I love you!

A few weeks after I returned home, I received another letter from David. It was the 3rd letter I’d received from him and it was written the middle of November. This was weeks before he knew that I was coming to visit. I sat in my living room that night and cried for an hour as I read his letter over and over again. I could see the change that his tutor told me about! I posted the story that night on my Facebook page and introduced everyone to my second son.

I am proud to say that I am currently writing to eight children! I have a full-time job, a husband and a toddler at home, but I make time to write these children. Because I know my words of love will change their lives and hopefully help them feel the love of Christ.

No matter what “being a mom” does or doesn’t look like in your life, I want to encourage you that being a mother can take on many faces! Having the title of mother doesn’t mean you have to have given birth. So, I’d like to challenge you to consider sponsoring a child through Compassion International. You can make a difference in a child’s life! And if it’s not something that is financially possible for you, then please contact Compassion about being a correspondent. Will you accept my challenge?

Amanda

Amanda and I would LOVE to see some kids sponsored today! Perhaps you’ll sponsor a child through Compassion International in honor of Amanda’s beautiful story?! Perhaps you’ll sponsor in honor of your mom, in honor of special mamas who have unique journeys to and through motherhood. Perhaps you’ll sponsor because your heart beats hard and heavy for children living in extreme poverty, and you’re ready to give and receive like never before. Click here to be connected to Compassion International’s website where you can view hundreds of beautiful children waiting for a sponsor. Let’s rally around these kiddos. Let’s show them what love looks like, what hope looks like from here.

This post is part of a month-long guest post series titled Special Mamas. The series runs all May and is in honor of moms who have unique journeys to and through motherhood. To read all 13 posts in the Special Mamas series, CLICK HERE and you’ll be directed to the introductory post. At the bottom of the post, you’ll find all guest posts listed and linked for easy reading!

It’s an honor to introduce you to Lita who’s sharing her unique journey through motherhood as part of our month-long guest post series, Special Mamas. Lita has four children. Her daughter, Abigail, was born with a medical condition called Arthrogryposis, as well as an “unknown neuromuscular disease that causes severe low muscle tone.” This is the first time Lita is sharing her story in written form. It is, of course, incredibly challenging to communicate a life-changing journey in just one short blog post, but Lita met the challenge with this marvelously honest, beautiful and hopeful post. Soak it all in. This is one special mama.

After twenty four hours of labor, and over six hours of pushing (yes, six!) I finally gave birth to my second child. Whereas our first born remained unnamed for two days in the hospital, this baby girl was named within minutes of birth. My husband proudly announced, “Abigail, which means my father’s joy.” They placed her on my stomach and I noticed the nervous glances of the nurses as they gently touched her outward-turned hands, bent wrists, and ramrod straight fingers. I had whispers of thoughts, but never voiced them: Was something wrong? Before words tumbled out, they whisked her off to the NICU.

The days that followed brought a whirlwind of nasal feeding tubes and struggles with feeding, but also a peace that was grounded. While I was holding her in the NICU when she was two days old, the visiting geneticist came and gave us a tentative diagnosis of an obscure condition and a bleak prognosis. We were shocked and numb. She handed us her business card as she left and we never heard from her again. For months afterwards, the memory of that experience generated frustration. Not only was this geneticist’s diagnosis wrong in the end, but even more upsetting was that she had dropped this bomb on us and walked away. Later, I realized that it is not unusual to be mad at the person who brings you the first devastating diagnosis. They get the brunt of your pent up anger at the crushing news. My countenance started to change imperceptibly with feelings of despair after this and comments made by our brusque pediatrician. My grounded peace from trusting in my Heavenly Father in those beginning days started to break apart and sift through the sieve of my neediness. The peace was replaced with a demanding and scared, “Help me NOW.”

The NICU was quite a distance from my floor and the nursing assistants would push me in the wheelchair (this recovery was more difficult than my previous c-section) until my last day when there was a shortage on the new shift. My new nurse told me pointedly to walk or wait until someone was available later. I cried out, “I can’t walk that far and my baby won’t be released until she can start nursing or learn to drink from a bottle. I need to get to the NICU for her next feeding!”

My tears were angry. I felt alone.

She begrudgingly deposited me at her bassinet way in the back past the medically fragile preemies. Once she saw Abigail, however, she decided to stick around. And hearing of my struggle with trying to nurse, she determined to get me help. She became my advocate, bringing in specialized help, and I was grateful. Asking for assistance and even firmly taking hold of what I needed for my baby was not wrong. I am a strong woman; this is what kept me from falling apart during those next few years. But the fear deep in my heart and lack of trust in God exposed my demanding orphan mentality instead of seeking what we needed from a place of rest and peace that is found in Christ.

Easter Sunday, we brought Abigail home when she was four days old and my husband had a pink stork sign pounded into the dirt in our front yard with her name, weight and birthdate, but no length. As I was with my little baby in our bedroom later that day, I heard a boy walking past our sign say to his mother, “Why don’t they have a length?” The Mom was puzzled and as they walked on, a lump formed in my throat. I hurt for my girl. See, her hands weren’t the only issues. Her hips and knees were in a flexed or bent position like a little baby still in the womb, but these fixed positions called contractures were so tight that they couldn’t get her length at birth. Also, her feet were turned in so that the soles of her feet faced each other. Club foot.

We were sent home with no splints (moldable plastic orthotics with velcro straps used to correct feet), but given the directive to bond with our baby before we started weekly castings (plaster) to help straighten out her feet. In between feedings, I would lie on the bed and stroke her face and sing how beautiful she was to me. Why, yes, Lionel Ritchie was pulled out from the 80s. But his simple words were a balm to my heart. When the next several weeks brought multiple appointments, tears, fighting tooth and nail with our insurance company to go out of network, more tears, therapy appointments, splints, round the clock nursing/pumping/bottle feeding, multiple plaster casts, my calm in the maelstrom was to lie down in the quiet moments, look into her eyes and bond with my little girl. It is so easy to be engulfed in this new world and miss the sweet moments of cuddling and loving on your baby. During these stressful first six weeks, we finally had a diagnosis of Arthrogryposis and an ‘unknown neuromuscular disease that causes severe low muscle tone’ and we were well on our way to entering this brave new world of having a child with special needs.

The neurologist said due to the creases on her palms, the pregnancy developed normally until an “insult” to my pregnancy at 18 weeks caused a disruption and yadda yadda yadda. All I heard was, “What did I do wrong?” If only I didn’t eat all that tunafish and drink tap water during my pregnancy. I wonder if it was the power lines hanging over our neighborhood that caused it. I was convinced she was “fearfully and wonderfully made” until something happened in my pregnancy that caused this disruption, because God is good and He wouldn’t do this to his child, would He?

My husband gave me a gem by Joni Eareckson Tada, When God Weeps: Why Our Sufferings Matter to the Almighty, which was a blessing as I mined the deep questions of my soul:

Is God good?

Is He Sovereign?

He was able to change the outcome.

He wasn’t surprised by her having Arthrogryposis.

It took a few years for my soul deep down to grasp this truth in all of its myriad of ways.

I went from thinking in those early weeks of her life that medical science can “fix” Arthrogryposis to the reality check given by one of her doctors: “Why are you concerned about her walking?  What she needs is to work on transfers. Transferring from bed to wheelchair is what she needs for independent living.” The reality of a lifelong disability started to seep in. Devastating on one hand, it freed me from having any unrealistic expectations that would be dashed against the idol of normal. I started savoring God’s gentle mercies as everything new she did was an absolute gift and a surprise.  God was very good to show us His amazing power throughout this time. The gospel came to life in a new way in our lives. The Lord used our struggles to refine our faith. My fist shaking took me on a journey of anger, sin, brokenness, redemption in the quiet recesses of my heart.

When she was very young we worked on getting her to hold her head up, which she finally did for a few seconds at twelve months. Next, sitting up with assistance and once that was mastered, scooting on her bottom to get around. Then, standing in a special contraption with full leg braces and a walker. Once that was conquered, she started taking a step or two while we were holding onto her the whole time. Around age four, she started walking with her long leg braces (KAFOs) with her knees locked straight. She had surpassed her therapists’ and doctors’ expectations. This unknown neuromuscular disease was not progressive like a dystrophy, and she was getting a bit stronger. She has a will to do whatever it is that she wants to do. Ice skating? No problem. Marching Band. She’s got it. Her will is formidable.

There is a beautiful story that is given to every special needs family after the birth of their baby. Well, maybe I exaggerate. I think it should be given out to every family. “Welcome to Holland” by Emily Perl Kingsley is the story of a planned trip to Italy, but somehow landing in Holland which is analogous to having a special needs child. When I read the line in the story where everyone else is busy going back and forth to Italy, it struck me:  Why us? Why not any of my friends? How come everyone else has a few hiccups in their pregnancies and everything works out fine? Looking back at my childish response, I cringe as I know there are women who have a silent pain they bear of miscarriages, infertility and bearing children prematurely. My question has changed to “Why not us?”

We have come to appreciate the tulips of Holland more than the espressos of Italy.  We know more of God’s goodness than we ever would have, a goodness that sometimes gives us what we would not ask for but nevertheless receive as a refining gift.  And Abby is a delightful and thoughtful girl who blesses us in so many ways.  Our flight was diverted that day over 16 years ago, but it landed just where it was supposed to.

Note to Readers: This is my perspective and never have I shared it in written form. It was incredibly difficult to condense it down to a blog post, but I couldn’t leave you without giving you some updates of my fabulous girl! Abby is hilarious, an intellectual and a foodie who is finishing up tenth grade. She enjoys Doctor Who, playing with a local school’s marching band and wishes she could travel more internationally! We are blessed beyond measure to be her parents. This isn’t just a nicety, but truth straight up!

Lita

Lita has been married to her loving husband, Justin, for almost twenty one years. They have four kids who range in age from 7 to 18 and the initials of their first names spell out the curious little name of her blog, www.JADEintheparke.com. She is shines in front of a group and loves to encourage. She welcomes you to come along for the ride on her blog at jadeintheparke.com and follow along on Instagram at @momtoJADE, Twitter at @momtoJADE and like their Facebook page at facebook.com/jadeintheparke.

This post is part of a month-long guest post series titled Special Mamas. The series runs all May and is in honor of moms who have unique journeys to and through motherhood. To read all 13 posts in the Special Mamas series, CLICK HERE and you’ll be directed to the introductory post. At the bottom of the post, you’ll find all guest posts listed and linked for easy reading!