Yesterday morning was promising. I was feeling pretty good about this whole parenting gig. In fact, for the past week, God has granted me the grace to a whole new level of joy in just being with my little girl. Like, I’ve actually enjoyed our time alone at home together rather than getting all freaked out about it. Big progress for this postpartum mess of a mama.
But I learned a universal parenting lesson yesterday:
Just when you think you’ve (I’ve) “got it,” your (my) 15 pound bundle of love will prove you (me) so dreadfully wrong. You(I), in fact, do not have it at all.
And thus it continues for the next 18 years. And beyond. Because let’s be honest, my mama still has to deal with me, too.
Then in steps grace. Filling all the uncomfortable cracks, cleansing all the mistakes, imparting strength to the young mama crying as her baby cries.
It’s beautiful–the way God orchestrates it all. He broke through another level of healing for me this past week, and without it, yesterday would have crushed me.
But it didn’t.
He sustained my joy, even in the tears.