The Thin Place of Motherhood

Honestly, I wasn’t convinced it was a good idea. Motherhood. And I was right on many levels. There are moments of great tedium, many repetitive tasks, and not a lot of freedom. I was right about hating children’s birthday parties and sharing mommy-talk, about meal planning and school runs. But all the same, some things surprised me.

I didn’t think there would be so many tears. The heart-stopping wrench of seeing my child in pain and not knowing how to make it better. The indescribable pride of watching my child make good, hard choices and knowing how much it had cost her. The sense of incredible, undeserved privilege to be trusted to raise this precious individual to adulthood. 

I didn’t reckon on the mystifying reality that my child is honest-to-God oblivious to how truly wonderful she is. It seems so evident to me. This kernel of goodness and gifting that sometimes unfurls daily a little more, sometimes flashes brilliance and brightness. The possibilities seem endless, yet she is unaware; more aware of her difficult hair, or puppy fat. And I want to scream, to shake her awake to the true reality of her shining self.

Perhaps this is motherhood, then. To straddle the divide between this earth-bound life of play-dates and nit checks, and the eternal glowing of an image-bearer who is growing oh-so-slowly into her identity. I long to learn how to offer a daily invitation into the larger story; to ask the right questions, to point to the far horizon and to say, “That, my girl, is where we are heading.”