Death by Minivan. Heather Anderson Renshaw

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      I used to think love was all about good feelings, but then my six-month-old threw up on me.

      Now, this wasn’t just run-of-the-mill infant spit-up, mind you. This was completely out-of-the-blue, large-volume, straight-to-the-face, down-the-shirt, into-the-bra, real person puke.

      I think we were both a little shocked. I looked at my daughter, and she looked at me. I’m not sure if it was the act of vomiting for the first time that upset her, or the horrified look on my face, but she began to cry. In that moment, I was simultaneously repulsed beyond belief yet filled with overwhelming compassion for this poor, helpless kid. I pulled her closer to me, saying, “It’s okay, sweetheart. Mama’s here. You’re okay,” while five-alarm sirens blared in my head, shrieking: “RUNN AWAAAAY! SAVE YOURSELLLLF! THE END IS NIIIIIIGHHH!”

      After a bit, she calmed down, and then we did the next loving thing: we hopped in the shower for a good, long while.

      And I could be wrong, but I like to think that my heart grew three sizes that day, sorta like the Grinch of Seussian lore. I was beginning to understand what real love looked like. It wasn’t always pretty, but it was persistent.

      There was no question that I loved my husband—enough to enter into a covenant relationship in front of God and the priest and my parents and everybody. But when Ava Madeleine was born, it was like the faucet that regulated my capacity to love was cranked up to full blast, until it reached geyser level. I didn’t even know this kid well yet, but I had the distinct understanding that I would literally throw myself in front of a truck to keep her safe. This was new territory for me.

      Comedian and writer Amy Poehler said of motherhood: “I love my boys so much I fear my heart will explode. I wonder if this love will crack open my chest and split me in half. It is scary, this love.”

      And she’s right. It can be scary. But, at least in my case, so was driving for the first time. And the first day of school. And my first date. And having someone calling me “Mom.” Scary, but also exciting. What I’ve found is that, if we ask, the Holy Spirit will equip us with the strength and courage we need to accomplish whatever we need to do according to his will, including hugging little girls (and/or boys) who just puked all over us.

       No greater love has a mom …

      Maybe you’ve heard this saying: if you want to know what real love is, look at a crucifix. I’ve heard it, too, and I remain humbled and eternally grateful that the Creator of the universe loved me enough to die. What I didn’t know was that it would be through my calling as a wife and mother that I would truly understand what it meant to die to myself for the sake of another—for the sake of love.

      A funny thing happens when you begin traveling this road to holiness called motherhood: lots of things change. At least, they did for me.

      Suddenly, I was thinking about someone else’s needs as more important than my own. Did the baby get enough to eat? How many wet diapers has she had? Did we forget her blankie? Is she breathing?? Meanwhile, I wasn’t really eating so well myself, or going to the bathroom on my own, or remembering my name or what day it was due to severe sleep deprivation. For the record, I do NOT recommend this model of postpartum recovery, as it’s completely ridiculous and totally unsustainable. If you want to know how to really do it right, search online for “how to postpartum like a boss” and see what my friend Blythe had to say about it over at her blog, The Fike Life. I promise you’ll thank me (but especially Blythe).

      Anyway, it wasn’t as if I’d never put others’ needs before mine, of course, but this was exponentially different. This little baby girl needed so very much from me at all times and couldn’t do a thing (save the occasional gas bubble I decided to believe was a smile) to repay me for my efforts.

      And the crazy thing was, other than wishing I could actually sleep for a few hours in a row, go to the bathroom in peace, and fit into my pre-pregnancy anything, I was okay with it. Glad, even! What a miracle! What a blessing! My husband and I had created, with God’s help, another human being! We were totally, thoroughly, head-over-heels in love. We were also totally, thoroughly, orange-juice-poured-into-the-cereal bowl exhausted.

      It wasn’t long before I wondered whether I would ever feel like a real human being again.

      Over the years, I’ve heard a lot of talk around the concept of the “Martyr Mom.” You know—a well-meaning friend tells another friend, “Don’t be a martyr!” And what she means is, “Quit sacrificing your mental, physical, and spiritual health on the altar of perfectionistic, Pinterest-worthy motherhood!” For the record: I agree 100 percent. I am fully and completely on board with moms taking care of themselves. And I mean that from the bottom of my heart. Love your kiddos and your husband and your neighbors as you love yourself. I encourage all mothers everywhere to do what they need to do to soak up God’s love whenever and however they can. I do not advocate taking on more than you can handle, because I’ve been there, and it is not a good road to travel. It leads to much crash, lots burn.

      What I’m suggesting is this: sacrificing our own wants and desires for the good of our children in motherhood is bound to happen, whether we’re ready for it or not. It’s kind of part of the job description. So, how about we moms decide to reclaim the word “martyr” and restore it to its original glory? A martyr is someone who dies—whether physically or in a spiritual sense—for his or her Christian faith. But the word martyr doesn’t mean “dead.” It means “witness.” A martyr is one who bears witness to the Gospel. As mothers, we are frontline witnesses. We bear witness to Jesus Christ in our children’s lives; we bear witness to other moms, encouraging one another in our common sisterhood; we bear witness to God’s strength, glory, and power, even if we can’t see it sometimes through the muck and the mire of everyday living. We moms can bear witness to our faith precisely through our calling to motherhood, every time we die to ourselves by performing acts of love for our very own “least of these”—our children.

      Call me an out-of-touch throwback, but if we’re using this reclaimed definition of “martyr,” I’m in. I want to be a martyr. I want to be a witness. I want to be someone whose life testifies to the love of God in my marriage and in my motherhood. It would be ludicrous to think I can do it on my own, broken, weak, and sinful as I am. But if I allow Jesus to take the wheel of my heart, and the Holy Spirit to be the motor animating my actions? Hallelujah! I wonder what a witness I could be.

       Yes, Mom, I was listening

      Growing up, my parents СКАЧАТЬ