This Baby Isn’t Mine

Twenty-nine weeks in, and amid the excitement and wonder… between the countless trips to the bathroom and the pillows that never are quite comfortable… there is really one prevailing theme to this wonder that is watching the days tick down from woman to Mom.

I have no idea what I’m doing.

Everything is a necessity. You need a bouncer, and a swing, and a rocker, and a jumper. You need to know if you’re having a boy or girl, because you need to have blue trucks or pink ballerinas on every piece of clothing. You need a gender reveal party! You need weekly bump pictures! You need this bottle. You need this pump. And oh goodness, how adorable is this!? You need it, too. You need to make sure you don’t let pregnancy affect your teaching. You need to sleep more, but make sure you still get your to-do list taken care of and get a solid hour of exercise in.

Everyone has an opinion. Breastfeed or formula. Disposables diapers or cloth. Natural or epidural. Hospital or home birth. Baby led weaning? Vaccines? Sleep training? Homemade baby food? Circumcision? Baby sign language? Crib bumpers? Social media? You’re carrying high, so that’s a girl in there. No heartburn – but, can you and your husband even make a bald baby? How dare you eat frozen yogurt?! LISTERIA!

This voice, that voice, until here I am, heavy in heart and oh-so-weary, because I’ve stopped hearing the voice. The still, small voice. The voice that entreats me to let Him bear on His shoulders all of the things that I’ve been trying to bear on my heart. The voice that asks me to please, come slow down and rest in Me, it’s been too long of this running and to-do listing and what you need more than this ever-fleeting sense of preparation is the ever-fulfilling peace of your Shepherd. The voice that reminds me that this little one doesn’t need a thing as dearly as it needs a mother that has a deep hunger for Him.

And how many times have I come back to Jeremiah. The verse that grabs the control freak in me by the shoulders, looks me square in the eyes, and yells STOP. By now, I should have this so engrained in my heart that I stop making the same mistakes, but these mistakes are well-worn grooves that my sinful self easily slips back into.

I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord. Plans to prosper you and not to harm you. Plans to give you a hope and a future.

But I am argumentative. I am stubborn, I am prideful. You don’t understand, God, I say. I’m quitting my job. My husband doesn’t currently have a job that will support us. What happens when we run out of savings? What happens if he can’t find anything? What happens when my contract is up and our insurance is gone? What happens if I can’t breastfeed? What happens if I can’t pump enough extra to cover worship practices? What happens if the nursery winds up half done? What happens if the baby comes early? What happens if the baby comes late? What happens if the baby starts coming while I’m teaching? What happens if the little one is born with something that we had no knowledge of or preparation for? What happens if our marriage is rocked? What happens if I spiral into depression? What happens if I fail at being a mother?

The Creator continues to put in a new heart, and I keep freshly mangling it with worry and pride and a dimming desire to spend any time with Him when there is just so. much. to. do. Instead of tending the fire He’s put in this heart, I tend to this thing and that thing until it’s just embers and the shadows have crept back into the corners. How can I be a good mother if I have shadows in my heart?

And what needs given over to Him – to the Lion of Judah who tore down everything that would stand between me and Him – I choose to keep. These are my worries. These are my goals and plans, my struggles.

But this is His baby.

This little one with the kicks and the pokes, he or she, they are not mine. This heart that beats a little stronger every week, that reassures that all is well, is not mine. The still-gray eyes that can open and see the lights and the darks of things, they are not mine. That mind that can already have thoughts and memories, that already has personalities and preferences, is not mine.

And I can cling on to this child, to this idea of what motherhood will be like for me. I can hold on to these hopes and dreams, and fight for them fiercely. But they are mine. Only mine, not given to God, and I have built castles in the sky before, I’ve built my houses upon the sand, and watched them crumble time and time again.

And the God who has power over every star and planet, He never forces my hand. I can choose to do this on my own. I will fall, sooner or later, into a crumpled heap of desperation and depression, but I can choose that. Or, I can offer this child, this little soul that only exists because God decided to fix my body for however short a time, this head with numbered hairs, these lungs with numbered breaths, this new life with every step and turn already written down… I can offer this baby to God. Because truly, this baby isn’t mine.

This child will grow strongest when I get out of my own way and let God do the molding and shaping. And I will find joy and peace in motherhood when I determine to my very core that God knows the plans He has for me, for us. That they are plans to prosper us, this little family, in the good and upright ways. Plans to prosper and not to harm, and that when the harm and hard comes, He will be the strength that guides us to the other side of that sea, to a place where we can look back and understand. God has plans of hope, of a future.

And the steps will not always be clear, because God likes to work in faith.

And I will not always be willing, because I am controlling and prideful in my weakest parts.

But I am not my own. And this baby isn’t mine. And God is the most perfect of Fathers with the most perfect of plans.

Words For Your Week: Sunday Links, Vol. 3

Every Sunday, I will link up and share quotes from posts that have really spoken to me during the past week. So many writers make me laugh, make me think, make me cry, and why wouldn’t I share them with you? Sometimes one or two, sometimes a much larger handful – I hope that they increase your faith as they did my own.


#162 – Jessica, at Authored Angioplasty

“I may be a “Don’t”
or a “Won’t” Christian
(there’s a difference
of intention –
just the way I choose each day
to wrap
these silver symbols over skin)
but that’s the “super” thing
about religion –
from beneath the stacks
of unopened devotions
and amid the sawdust mist
and Cliffs un-noted
I arise each morning knowing
I want more
from the twisting of this orbit
and wake up face to face
with equal parts free will,
and grace.”

There Will Be No Baptists In Heaven – Antonia, at A Deeper Story

“I’m just not sure we are all supposed to look the same. Maybe, actually, at the last and first we will all be baptizing each other over and over again (babies and teenagers, in rivers and gold fonts), we will always ever be speaking in tongues, communing with the saints, tapping tambourines, swinging incense, writing icons, having testimony time,  forever passing around the bread and the wine, therefore let us keep the feast, Alleluia.”

Embracing My Sasha Fierce – Osheta, at Shalom In The City

“There’s more than scandalized pearl clutching and judgmental accusations. There’s more than rule following and pledge card signing.  There’s more than insecurity driven coldness and fear-based shaming. There’s more than books that turn married sex into a seven day project or game to be won. There’s more for us, holy, wild, wonderful, Sasha Fierces. There’s Holy Spirit sealed, Creator-God sanctioned, Jesus Christ celebrated,  joyful intimacy in marriage.”

To The Wife Who Holds Her Breath – Sheila, at Longings End

“For she can never change him when he doesn’t want to change, doesn’t see the truth in a true, real Way. Won’t bend His knee to the Almighty when it’s the throne he desires.”

This One’s For The Men – Brianne, at Compassion Blog

“Sponsorship isn’t just for women. You know, the maternal type. The ones who seem to be the most likely to remember to write. The ones who might shout for joy with each letter received. A bond between a boy and a man is quite purely, important. So this is a call to all the men to Sponsor a Child. Or a call to all the women who know a man (a friend, a husband, a boyfriend, a son) to encourage that man to Sponsor a Child. There is a boy out there who might find such joy at just the sound of your name. A boy who, in the midst of poverty, might find his best friend.”

%d bloggers like this: