Monday, May 6, 2013

Chatter over breakfast {or what makes a name tall}

Breakfast is our 'around the table' family time. Some of our best conversations circulate over pancakes and coffee, especially on Friday mornings when we have nowhere to go.

This morning, Tim brought up the topic of the trimester... What are we going to name Little Man?

Tim: Girls, what should we name baby brother?

Gwennan: Isaac Daniel Manza

Me: So we should name him Isaac?

Gwennan: No, Isaac is just his tallest name.

Me, philosophically curious: What makes a name tall?

Gwennan, slightly exasperated by my dumb question: Drinking milk from Mommy's boobs.

Ah yes.

Outside of a few cute moments like this one, our conversations seem to be failing recently. Momma's in no mood to talk, to you, to God, to anyone. At least that's how it feels on my end. My every move is punctuated with a sigh. My conversations spoken through unfocused eyes.

Do my girls know I still love them? Do they know how much the pain of carrying brother is weighing on my soul? Do they understand at all?

And where is grace on weeks like this? When I seem to have none?

Grace sneaks up in a child voice. Big one talking to herself at play, I have two beautiful, precious, precious girls. I love them so much!

Through a Holy Spirit filter, she holds fast to momma's phrase of love. She doesn't sigh at her baby dolls and slowly rise from the table to wipe spilled milk. She hugs and sings and latches hard to the good moments. The moments worth sharing.

And I shout silent thanks to the Lord for the encouragement I desperately need. Shot in the arm better than espresso for empowering an exhausted momma to re-enter the fray. The crazy fight to love my family.

When I started this momma journey, I thought momma love was a natural thing, brought on by hormone storms and maternal instinct. Train the younger women to love their husbands and children seemed superfluous. Like instructing someone to train to feed themselves.

Because I did not grasp love. Not real, honest, sacrificial love. No inkling of the root of selfishness burrowed deep in my heart. Or how much hard labor it takes to expose such a root. Or how easily it would grow back just as strong as ever when my world spins a little too chaotic for my taste.

A quiet voice whispers to me I have a beautiful, precious, precious girl. I love you so much! He has not forgotten me, could not forget me, any more than I could forget my beautiful, precious girls yawping in the next room or the wonderful little man squirming inside me. Where my love is learned, his love is nature. He cannot neglect me any more than he can neglect himself. His love is who He is.

As high as the heavens are above the earth, so great is his steadfast love toward those who fear him. Psalm 103:11

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