mom.

I have been doing some study recently on Biblical Feminism (I don’t think it exists, by the way), Egalitarianism, Complementarianism, etc. In short, women’s roles as taught in Scripture, especially as it pertains to marriage and the church. In this process, which has only been going on for a week or two, I have become increasingly frustrated, which alternates with a sense of guilt for not liking words and concepts like “submission”, “helper”, and even “domestic” at first blush. I mean, I’m a Christian woman. I’m head-over-heels dedicated to the truth of God’s word and upholding and teaching it no matter how counter-cultural it happens to sound. But here I was also getting upset along with everyone else – and what’s worse, my righteous indignation started sounding an awful lot like a temper-tantrum.

But…Whhhhyyyyy?  I whined to myself. Why can’t I teach men in the church? I have a theology degree, of all things. I’ve been to school. I’m educated. What’s more, the truth I would teach is not gender-specific! And it’s essential! Everyone needs to know it; does it really matter whether or not it comes from a woman? And I can teach, after all…Whhhhyyyy nooooootttt….???

Anyway. Through all of my parenthetical arguments with myself (to which I will gladly give you the conclusions…when I reach them), I have tasked myself with reading a wide range of authors on this subject, determined to bend my stubborn will into sub…submi…to align my will with what God has established as truth. This task is currently leading me through articles by Christian women on Christian womanhood. Which has been really enlightening, and is slowly chipping away at my cynical exoskeleton.

I just read an article on teaching daughters biblical femininity (not to be confused with biblical feminism), which was riveting in part because I now have a daughter to teach biblical femininity to. Well, a step-daughter. But as she told me the other day in her sweet, innocent, 13 year-old way that often causes tears to spring to my eyes: “Sarah, I don’t like the word stepmom.” When I asked her why, the conversation went like this.

“Why don’t you like that word, sweetie?”

“Well, some friends and me were talking at school the other day about stepmothers, and Tory said ‘Jentry has a stepmom’.”

“And…?”

“And I said ‘no, I don’t.’” Jentry giggled a little.

Surprised, I stopped washing dishes and laughed with her. Our family is still adjusting.  “Did you forget?” I asked.

“No…well, kind of.” she giggled again, her eyes bright and a little embarrassed at herself, then continued.

“I just don’t like the word ‘stepmother’. I don’t think of you as my stepmother…”

I have to admit, at this point I was a little disappointed, as I wondered what she meant.

“…you’re just so much…more than that. ‘Stepmom’ means something different, like I don’t know you or you don’t like me or something. And it’s not like that.”

I was remembering this conversation last night when I kissed and hugged my daughter good-bye after her softball game. She quietly just leaned into me and laid her head on my shoulder and was still for a long time. “I love you, Sarah.” She whispered. And like that time in the kitchen I smiled, sniffed back a tear, and thanked the God of the universe for…her. And…this. And his grace in the life of my family.

To add to all of this, a couple of days ago it was Mother’s Day. My first Mother’s Day as a step-mom. And as I confessed to my husband, Mother’s Day is weird for step-moms. I understand that for many women and families, it’s really painful and very awkward at best. But the kind of weird I’m talking about has to do with my son (okay, okay, step-son). Unlike his younger sister, Justus lives with us all the time. I cook for him, I clean up after him, I listen to him, I drive him to school and ask about his grades and get all worked up at his basketball games and laugh with him and scold him for leaving his dirty clothes at the front door and ask him to clean his room and pray for him and tell him I love him and wonder with him about college and…and…and…and I did not give birth to him. Nor was I there for the first 14 years of his life. I only slightly entered the picture when he was 15, and not permanently until he was 16. We are still learning about each other and how to press each other’s buttons and stay out of each other’s way…which I give myself a lot of credit for, because that’s hard with the most normal of circumstances with a teenage boy-man. But I love that boy-man with all of my heart and would take a bullet for him. He makes me worried and swell with pride both; I have a lot invested in him. So what’s Mother’s Day for moms like me? I’m a mom without the biological claim.

It turned out like a lot of things in my life in the last couple of years: small, sweet, unassuming and strangely perfect. The men of the church throw a Mother’s Day breakfast before morning service, which Patrick and Justus went early to help with. When I showed up to eat, Justus picked out a red carnation to pin on my jacket, Patrick dished up a plate for me, and then Justus pulled out my chair and seated me, complete with the napkin placed on my lap. He put his arm around my shoulder and patted it, Which happened multiple times that day, including the time I returned to our pew from playing a song during church and there he was, sitting with a rose to give me, just like all the other kids had done for their moms. I carried it around all day.

All (and I do mean all) of this has been underscored with memories and vignettes and straight-up hallucinations of my own mom. She lives inAlaskaand I haven’t seen her in a long time. But in the area of being in her image, from her flesh, and nurtured by her spirit, that really doesn’t matter. Like at all. I have been so overwhelmed since becoming a mom myself with how much I am my mother’s daughter. And what she’s taught me. And how I’m like her. And I couldn’t be more proud. Or well-equipped.

Every time I wrap my arms around my kids and they lay their heads on my shoulders, I feel my mom. She’s so close I can almost smell her, which as many of you know is the most comforting smell in the world. When I laugh I hear her, and see the way her eyebrows raise as if she wonders if she’ll recover every time she laughs.

Some of the things that come to mind quickly when I think about mom is how hard she tried, how hard she worked. And how many times she allowed herself to fail in front of us. And as I feel this sacred burden of motherhood on my own shoulders, I see more what an enormously transparent way of life my mom has. I want to be more like her.

My mom has always had this innate ability to touch people at their most honest and vulnerable place; those who are most hurting are strangely drawn to her. I guess they just see in her the things they have come to think are to good to be true: that she accepts them as they are, that she loves them with their flaws, that she won’t hurt them further, and that she has the water of life for their parched souls. I desperately want to be like this, to be known as this person. Not because I need to be needed, but because I have been given the water of life.

I have my mom’s idiosyncrasies, too…stuff only she would “get”. I still have to catch myself from telling my kids to stop smacking their food when they chew, because I realize they’ve just never been taught that. I definitely have preferences when doing the laundry – I figure, if I’m going to touch and handle all your smelly, sweaty clothes, then you can give them to me promptly and in the manner I prescribe. I do not want to unfold all your dirty socks from the ball they come in. That’s just gross. I even find myself singing my mom’s old song…”laundry, laundry, how I loathe thee/how I do thee o’r and o’r…” I don’t like the floors dirty and I don’t like waking up to a dirty kitchen. I love to cuddle with my kids and sometimes I need my husband to just say “honey…honey…it’s okay.” I love the feel and smell of dirt on my hands when I am gardening. I love to eat dinner together as a family at the table. I like to sit and just talk with friends, and perhaps no one will ever know what happens between me and God when I am alone with him.

I desperately want my kids to love God with all their heart, and find myself weary (in a good way) at the end of the day from trying to find new ways to talk about him and creative ways to teach them truth. I see my shortcomings so much clearer when viewing them through my kids’ eyes, because I realize what’s at stake.

I guess in short, I have learned a lot about what exactly my mom was (and still is, in many ways) up against. I know what it is to come home exhausted and have twenty minutes to get dinner on the table for seemingly insatiable appetites. I know what it is to go through my whole day wanting to do just one particular thing…and three meals, four loads of laundry, two conversations, a swept floor, and some paperwork later,…the day is gone. And it was all given to someone else.

It’s only been a year for me; my mom is still doing this, still giving her life on behalf of others. It’s amazing to me. I hope my mom gets some pleasure and some reward by knowing that, finally, someone knows what she has done. Maybe not to the full extent, but almost. I hope she can lean back while I lean forward and say…wow. Now I get it.

Thanks Mom. I love you.

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