You Are Not Your Own

It seems I have always had a hard time trusting those lines that appear on a pregnancy test. For me, I need to hear a tiny, ridiculously fast-paced heartbeat to really be able to grasp the truth:  life is never going to be the same. The very first time I heard the sound of a heart other than mine beating from within me, everything changed in that very instant. No matter where I went or what I was doing, I knew that I was no longer doing it alone.

We change how we eat, how we move, how we think about the world. We submit to a sacred process that oftentimes keeps us from sleeping or finds us making more trips to the bathroom than we'd care to admit. And then we meet this tiny little person that has for so long been an extension of ourselves.

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All at once, I wanted to return them to that place of safety and comfort and nourishment, all the while knowing that now that I had held them and looked upon them, I could never let them go. And so, I learned what it is like to have another being completely dependent upon me for his every need. I learned the beauty of becoming a source of nourishment for someone else. Sometimes I chafed under the demand and the unfairness that this was a task that only I could perform. But God showed me just how vast He is and nursed my heart as I nursed each of my boys.

Just as you cannot understand the path of the wind or the mystery of a tiny baby growing in its mother’s womb, so you cannot understand the activity of God, who does all things (Ecclesiastes 11:5, NLT).

Now here I find myself, three years and nine months later, with my body returned to me, so to speak. I have a sweet babe waiting for me in heaven and two independent toddlers who don't need me specifically for nourishment; my baby, who isn't so much of a baby anymore, is officially weaned. And I can't help but meditate on these two things:

You are not your own. 

As I push myself physically and mentally, trying to get back into clothes that haven't fit the way I'd like them to for awhile, I know that I will never be the same. My body has gone through so, so much, in such a short amount of time. It deserves my respect and my admiration. It also deserves honesty and practicality and grace. I will take care of my body. I will  make peace with its flaws because I know I am not content with giving up … but I also know that it's not worth striving to be what I once was. I can look forward with confidence that God has designed my body to love and be loved.

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My children still need me. 

It may not be for late night feedings, but they still need what only I can give. No one can give hugs just the way I do. No one else reads the characters' voices in their favorite storybooks as only I do. They know my scent, the sound of my voice, and what that spot just below my chin feels like. Soon, they will need my wisdom and my advice. They will need a listening ear and an unjudging spirit. They will need a friend. They will need someone to be embarrassed about. They will always, always need someone to wake up every morning and strive to demonstrate God's love even when it is so, so hard. And they will still need someone to be a fortress and a safe haven for them.

Ah, motherhood.

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