Yesterday I spent hours writing, reflecting on the birth of my firstborn daughter. She was two weeks late. I gave up on her ever leaving my aching middle. She’s 40 now and the ache never went away—because when children are given to us all our brokenness comes to the surface.
We knew it right away, didn’t we? The moment our arms dropped with more miracle than we could ever understand. That we didn’t have it in our own skin to love sacrificially, abandon our own neediness. But our longing for innocence, our hunger for new beginnings led us to mothering. And from the beginning we bled out. Our brokenness shown to us in living color. Yet in our mess, “she brought forth her firstborn Son”—our innocence, our new beginning, laying in a manger.
We could spend all day aching over our failures as a mother, or, we can revel in the marvelous work of The Father. Because the list of failures can’t stand against our Savior’s scars.
There has always been, always will be, more grace than mistakes.
“For He who is mighty has done great things for me, and holy is His name.”