The hand that rocks the cradle IS the hand that rules the world!
Below are a number of articles to encourage mothers of young children in homemaking and the raising of wonderful families. Most were written for a local M.O.P.S (that's Mothers Of Preschoolers, International) newsletter. The author, who is also the Homestead Homemaker, loved being a M.O.P.S Mentor Mom for five years.
Because
Mothering Matters
♥
Your comments below!
04/05/11 - Great With Destiny - by Christianna Reed Maas, 2010
My willingness to carry life is the revenge, the antidote, the great rebuttal of every murder, every abortion, and every genocide. I sustain humanity. Deep inside of me, life grows. I am death’s opposition.
I have pushed back the hand of darkness today. I have caused there to be a weakening tremor among the ranks of those set on earth’s destruction. Today a vibration that calls angels to attention echoed throughout time. Our laughter threatened hell today.
I dined with the greats of God’s army. I made their meals, and tied their shoes. Today, I walked with greatness, and when they were tired I carried them. I have poured myself out for the cause today.
It is finally quiet, but life stirs inside of me. Gaining strength, the pulse of life sends a constant reminder to both good and evil that I have yielded myself to Heaven and now carry its dream. No angel has ever had such a privilege, nor any man. I am humbled by the honor. I am great with destiny.
I birth the freedom fighters. In the great war, I am a leader of underground resistance. I smile at the disguise of my troops, surrounded by a host of warriors, destiny swirling, invisible yet tangible, and the anointing to alter history. Our footsteps marking land for conquest, we move undetected through the common places.
Today I was the barrier between evil and innocence. I was the gate keeper, watching over the hope of mankind, and no intruder trespassed. There is not an hour of day or night when I turn from my post. The fierceness of my love is unmatched on earth.
And because I smiled instead of frowned the world will know the power of grace. Hope has feet, and it will run to the corners of earth, because I stood up against destruction. I am a woman. I am a mother. I am the keeper and sustainer of life here on earth. Heaven stands in honor of my mission. No one else can carry my call. I am the daughter of Eve. Eve has been redeemed. I am the opposition of death. I am a woman.
—Christianna Reed Maas, 2010
THE OLD AND THE NEW - 01/17/11
I spent a bright, sunny New Year’s Eve day bustling about putting up all the Christmas decorations (aided by my ever-present toddler) and getting ready for my nineteen-year-old daughter’s New Year’s Eve party to be held in her brand new apartment. Her first - apartment that is. It was a day of contrasts. It was a day to be aware of the passing of time.
As I removed garland and lights from the railing, my little toddler girl removed all the stocking hangers — which I had just neatly put away in their individual boxes. She relocated one to an unknown “special place” in the process. I continued, undaunted, trying to put away ornaments, placemats, and decorations. I packaged. She unpackaged. I boxed. She unboxed. It was a long process. It gave me time to think.
My husband and I had just moved our third-born 19-year-old daughter into her new apartment the night before. It didn’t take us long as she only owns a bedroom set, a parrot, and some macaroni and cheese. Her color scheme was solid cobalt blue, lime green and sunny yellow. Nice, but I thought that country prints and ginghams would be more… well, more like me. But, alas, she was being more like — herself. And that night she was giving a New Year’s Eve party. As she invited people, she told them it was BYOF (bring your own food). “Oh, and also BYOD (drinks) and –C (chair) and bring your own video to watch but only if you bring your own VCR and TV — hope you can come!!”
My children are in very different stages of life. They are in different generations!! It made for some heavy meditations on New Year’s Eve. Holding my little one I stood in my 19-year-old’s silent, empty bedroom. The sound of a voice is different in a vacant room, underscoring the enormous change that had taken place. Wait a minute. How can this be? Doesn’t the child of this room still belong in my arms? Yes, that busy little 2 year old. What has happened? How could I let an entire childhood slip right through my fingers? All her toddlerhood—gone. All her elementary and junior high growing up days are gone forever now. All the noisy, laughing, crying playing years that I loved are only vivid memories. Too vivid for dry eyes on this New Year’s Eve.
I squeezed the toddler I still held and promised I would never let her grow up and leave me. She seemed okay with that—for the moment. Then I thanked God for the wonderful young woman who I had the privilege of nurturing to adulthood. I think she’ll decorate her home a lot differently than I would. But she is a God-fearing, Bible-toting, wisdom-seeking, pure-living Christian. So I can deal with cobalt blue and lemon-lime.
_____________________
I want to wish you all a Happy New Year. May your hearts be as full as your arms. And pay attention to these preschool days. So soon they’ll be gone. So very soon.
“See, the former things have taken place, and new things I declare; ...do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?” Is. 42:9, 43:18,19
THANKSGIVING COMPS - posted 11/02/10
Once when my fourth-born was a new baby I found myself offering up a strange prayer while on my knees. Actually, on my hands and knees and not primarily as a prayer posture, humble as it may seem. “Thank You, God for letting me finally clean this toilet.” I attributed my baby’s unusually long period of contentment in her bouncy seat to nothing less than divine intervention to provide me with this blessing. Wait—BLESSING? I HATE cleaning the toilet!!! I’m never grateful about it. Dutiful, perhaps, but not grateful. However, at this point I was desperate to save my family from the encroaching staff germs I knew were beginning to thrive there. It was a rare opportunity and yes, on my hands and knees scrubbing my toilet, I was grateful.
Mothers of Preschoolers are grateful for some odd things. Some women require dinners out, but you all are just glad to catch one still warm at home. I remember with a new baby everything I ate was room temperature—fried eggs to ice cream.
Some women get excited about a new dress. But at this stage it’s thrilling to be able to zip an old one. For some it’s a romantic evening away in a luxurious bed. But, I bet you’d really love to get to sleep all night in your own. “New patio furniture?” someone asks. Oh, that must mean that versatile potty chair enthroning your toddler as you pull weeds. Sermon and songs aside, church is great if you don’t leave to change your clothes.
Ah, the joys of motherhood—simple but exultant.
How grateful we are has something to do with the comparisons we make. And there are plenty we could make to spur us on to greater thanksgiving. We could compare our lives with the mothers of hungry children, the slaves of Sudan, abused children, persecuted Christians, flood and earthquake victims, sick people, homeless people, childless people, the insane, the illiterate, the unloved.
And when we compare our lives with those first thankful Pilgrims, gaunt and threadbare, oh, how we have been chosen for blessing! May thanksgiving, not complaining, fill our speech and our hearts this month.
Happy Thanksgiving to you all.
“Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good.”
I Chron. 16:34, Psalm 1067:1, Psalm 107:1, Psalm 118:1, Psalm 118:29, and Psalm 136:1
Everyday, I get up in the morning and spend my day trying to keep my 19 month old from killing herself. It’s a big job and I stay in a constant state of nervous tension most of the time.
The other day Hannah was safely secured in her high chair eating raisins. Still, it was not a time for her parents to relax. As my husband and I were admiring her adorable ways, Hannah began pointing to her nose saying, “noe...noe...” She has become fascinated with the anatomy of her nose often doing un-lady-like probes which we hope, if ignored, will go away.
“Yes, Hannah,” her father encouraged. “That’s your nose. Where’s Hannah’s eye?” Usually at this point Hannah will run through her repertoire of body parts.
“Noe...Noe!” Hannah continued pointing to the stubby button in the middle of her face.
“That’s right but where’s your mouth?” her daddy asked.
“NOOE!!!” she persisted starting to cry. Hmmmmnn. My husband and I exchanged nervous glances and counted raisins. I quickly began unbuckling her from her very safe and secure high chair and rushed her to the light of the kitchen window for a nostril inspection. I couldn’t see anything but, Daddy didn’t want to give up, knowing that the nature of a nose could afford a raisin a certain element of camouflage. We twisted, turned, and inverted our struggling child until light penetrated the tiny cavern. Astounded he said, “She has a RAISIN UP HER NOSE!!!”
I’d heard of this sort of nose fetish among toddlers. My niece once stuck an acorn up her nose and recovered. I tried to calm myself and quickly located a raisin extractor - i.e. pair of blunt-nose (sorry) tweezers. My husband pinned our poor daughter down and after numerous attempts, much perspiration, and prayerful petitioning I was able to extract the offending “foreign body.” What a relief! We thanked the Lord with raisin held high.
Intervals between these kinds of crises are short for people who parent preschoolers. We live in a constant state of alert. We even sleep with one ear tuned to the needs of a child. So, welcome to M.O.P.S!! May it be for you that calm in the middle of the wonderful storm of mothering preschoolers. And do take comfort in the statistics. Most people survive their toddlerhood.
And may we constantly pray for our children’s protection against the raisins and other hazards of life. Hannah’s parents do.
HARROWING HORTICULTURE posted 8/2/10
My two-year old got a taste of gardening the other day. Actually, I wanted to put a few flowers in the front to welcome all the folks who were coming over for Mother's Day. And whatever I do, of course, this tiny little girl does with me.
Now, I'm not a gardener mind you, but, as I stepped off the porch I had to admire the redwood planter where I had already set multi-colored pansies. They were doing great and in the middle of them were my two prized anemones. They were tall with large, rich purple flower faces. Beautiful! They would be at their best for Mother's Day. I was PROUD of them. And so it went before the fall.
I moved forward to the little flower bed at the corner of the house. With trowel in hand I wrorked in the manner of all Mothers of Preschoolers - fast and furiously before something bad happens. Hannah, my two-year old chattered behind me in baby talk interspersed with English comments regarding climatic conditions ("Bite sunshine") and horticultural observations ("Pitty Fowers!"). I remained vaguely connected to her conversationally with occasional "uh, huh's" and "hmm, hmmm's." Then suddenly, something in her tone broke through my digging focus. "PITTY FOWER! Hanah's PITTY FOWER!" I braced myself, turned, and gasped. It was horrible! Hannah's death grip encircled the top of the delicate stem like a hangman's noose through which the large purple blossom dropped it's head. Its roots dangled while seeming to cling desperately to a few soil particles which had not yet to the violent shaking. There was my anemone. Limp, lifeless. A hanging is a terrible thing to witness.
And there was my two-year old girl. Exultant, ecstatic! Clearly she wanted to share the glorious moment with me. She discovered a little gem of the natural world, created for her pleasure. And she relished it.
And there I was in another M.O.P.S decision-making quandary. Which should I look at? The ruthless hanging or the wonder in my little girl's eyes? Should I scold or should I celebrate? But, the question for today is: What would YOU do if the baby and the blossom were yours?
posted 7/15/10
by Gwen Carson
I received a present today
Not wrapped and tied the usual way
But just the same, a gift divine
I hold her now, this baby of mine.
A thousand times I'll wipe this face
And hands and feet and another place
And pick up toys 'till my back could break
At least a thousand lunches make.
But, I cannot release my hold
Of the tiny frame just moments old
Her angel features stir and nod
My gift from the embrace of God.
Can I pass the faith I must
When sometimes I fail to trust?
Will she, with God her heart align
Though bits of self she sees in mine?
Dear God, forgive but I must ask
Just one more gift to meet this task
Since sin my soul has sorely marred
Let her see me leaning hard
On the One Who pours such grace
O'er each struggling up-turned face.
I thank You for this gift so sweet
But, Lord, please make my joy complete
And let me give her back to You
One day redeemed and born anew.
DANCE OF THE TODDLER posted 7/1/10
It was one of those do-I-laugh-or-do-I-cry? moments. I chanced upon my little daughter performing the under rated classic Dance of the Toddler. I’m sure many of you have seen this theatrical, and would recognize the distinctive characteristics of this particular dance in a minute — the random foot flinging, unexpected spins, and arm flailings. An energy born out of the rhythm of the music my little girl was listening to. As an art form, the little-hailed Dance Of The Toddler is deficient in the grace or beauty acclaimed by other performances. Yet it has been known to hold the audience spell-bound (especially if it’s Mom) as it did me on this occasion.
What was it about this pageant that tugged at my heart? This dancer was equally lacking in skill and inhibition. The costuming was simple - a worn jumper and thongs which shod small dirty feet. From whence then, this irrepressible stirring in my heart?
My answer came from the music. Well, actually the lyrics. Steven Curtis Chapman explained it all to me.
I can see the fingerprints of God, when I look at you,
I can see the fingerprints of God, and I know it’s true,
You’re a masterpiece that all creations quietly applauds,
And you’re covered with the fingerprints of God.
Never has there been and never again, will there be another you,
Fashioned by God’s hand and perfectly planned,
To be just who you are, and what He’s been creating,
Since the first beat of your heart, is a living, breathing, priceless work of art and..
Just look at you, you’re a wonder in the making
Oh, and God’s not through, in fact He’s just getting started...
“Yes, God. A masterpiece!” I prayed. “Yes, I see them! She’s covered with Your fingerprints. She’s a priceless work of art!”
“Dance on,” I whispered inside myself. “Dance to your heart’s content, little angel ballerina.”
Let them praise His name with dancing... Psalm 149:3
Though not yet visible, I could sense it coming from the expression on the young woman’s face. Each one a decision, to fight or to yield. She makes her choice, closes her eyes, drops her shoulders, releases her jaw. Does she sleep? No. She has never worked so hard. In pain, you will bring forth children...
Beneath the rock hard flexion, a squirming infant is less yielding. Now, now Little One. You will both have to surrender. This process will have its way with you. We have all succumbed.
Stopwatch. Sips of water. Scribbles on note paper.
The ascent grows steeper and finally labor crescendos into birth, and agony explodes into ecstasy. At once, three generations of womanhood - grandmother, mother, and infant daughter, all witness the ancient truth: From out of the pain, the promise.
Even for us who have given birth, it is difficult to understand pain. We wrestle with our own and even ponder Christ’s - the agony two thousand Easters ago. We try to understand it through Easter lilies, stained glass, and sunrise services. How much pain does it take to die? To live? To atone for the sins of the world? Certainly if there had been no suffering on Friday, there would have been no resurrection on Sunday, or at the last day. It is a vivid picture of the promise of life from pain.
Over and over I’ve been delivered from some impossible grief, hurt, or fear and afterward I always wonder why I questioned, doubted. Jesus would have us “share in the fellowship of His suffering,” and also have “abundant life.” Life from pain. In our pain, is the working of God’s power. The very power that resurrected Jesus. It is the genesis of re-birth and new life. The Bible says that additionally, the whole earth groans in birth pains as it moves toward the promise of the perfected state. I just wonder if I will ever learn to wait out my own pain expectantly and in view of His many promises?
I believe God was using a visual aid in that day’s lesson plan. For I had a moment of comprehension when I saw my first grandchild brought forth. The lesson continues through Easter season, when new life emerges from the hardness of winter, when the resurrection of the suffered Christ is celebrated. From out of the pain, the promise.
“No pain, no gain.” “No guts, no glory.” “No cross, no crown,” - they say. But there is more here than clichés. Because for God’s own children, at work in our trials, frustrations, and heartaches is the power of the resurrected Christ. Molding, sanctifying. Being conformed to the image of Christ is also a reproductive process as He is reproducing Himself in us. That too, can be hard labor. And in the midst of that pain, there is yet a promise. And we can best get through the former, while trusting in the latter. In birth or in re-birth.
“Blessed is the man who perseveres under trial... he will receive the crown of life
that God has promised.” James 1:12
GROWING UP WITH HANNAH posted 6/1/10
Looking back on 1997 I realize that it was the year - the only year - of Hannah’s babyhood. She went from zero to twelve months in what seems to me like record time. So brief was that time when I cradled my tiny, gowned newborn just so to help her latch on to nurse. Hannah uses a self-serve approach now. And her first efforts at locomotion were so cute. On all fours, she rocked back and forth winding up for the big take off. She looked like a wind up toy. Now she races lickety-split like a puppy toward an unauthorized cupboard. This puppy propels herself with toed-in back feet perfectly timed to the straight-legged nazi goose step of the front paws. My baby is charging full speed ahead toward toddlerhood. And part of me is saying “No, Hannah! Don’t go there! You’re too little. Come back to my arms. You need me ... please!” But, I could more easily hold back the tide than keep my baby from growing up. She’s already programmed to do it. 1998 will bring so much change in her life. She’ll be taking her first steps any day now. Words will come too. Strong legs and strong opinions.
But what I wonder the most about 1998 is not how much Hannah’s going to grow up. I already know because I’ve been down this road with three others. What I really wonder about is how much am I going to grow up this year. Can I learn from her enthusiasm for trying new things and reaching new heights - like the end table with the figurine on top? Will I be able to put aside a few more baby ways, like self-pity, jealousy, laziness, and criticism and reach for kindness, gentleness, and self-control? After all, Hannah figures, why sit when you can stand? Why crawl when you can walk and why walk when you can run? I guess in that one sense I’d like to follow in her size three foot steps - always running ahead toward change and maturity. I think it’s harder to grow up once you’re big. So our little ones can spur us on.
I hope everyone has a wonderful New Year!
“But grow in the grace and knowledge of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.”
II Peter 3:18
EXECUTIVE SUITE—AND SOUR posted 9/14/10
I don’t care what society’s misconceptions and stereotypes are about mothers. I want to be one. I negotiated a few rungs of the corporate ladder once and concluded that stockholder profits are relatively unimportant to me compared with the grand significance of raising a child.
I don’t want raises or reviews, but memories—of a baby’s milk-sated sigh, a toddler’s first steps and sticky kisses. I don’t want to be a professor; just a chance to weave into the lives of my precious ones the ribbons of my teaching. I don’t want an executive title, but love hearing an adult daughter come back to “Mama” after a decade of “Mom.”
I don’t care much about corporate goals. Give me rather, a small moldable life to shape. I don’t care to stress over balance sheets. Only to balance the hard work and sheer joy of leading someone through the fleeting moments of childhood.
I have no desire to break the glass ceiling, but to build a sanctuary for the broken heart of a teen. Someone else can have the gold watch. I never plan to retire.
This is my chosen path. It is not an easy way. For, from the pangs of its beginnings it is a labor. From birth to release, there is pain. Yet also it’s a journey to love and growth. From exuberant joy to wrenching heartache, I cherish the privilege of mothering my children. As a part of the mysterious continuum of creation I embrace and celebrate this facet of womanhood, thanking God for both the satisfaction and the struggle. I think Him for letting me be a mother.
“I will bless her and she shall be a mother…” Gen. 17:16
Comments:
I love your new website! Keep up the good work!
I tried to click on the link from that wonderful firewood "art" picture and it came up as page missing.
Also, Liz and I have been making soap for the last couple of years--it's so much fun. Thought I would recommend a website for soap-making supplies. The address is brambleberry.com. It also has a lye calculator for quick reference.
Drop a line if you have a chance and let us know how you guys are doing.
Love, Rita
Your articles do remind me of our beautiful MOPS years together and your fabulous mentoring words to all of us!! I sure miss those days and think of those days with much affection.
I cannot believe now that my "MOPS" baby is now 13 years old and my oldest will be 21 in May....and my daughter turned 18 in March. Time just marches on.
Love you articles! Look forward to reading more!!
