Baby Steps

I took to motherhood like a duck to water. 

Which is not to say I didn't make mistakes. Every single day, and many times a day. 

During the days in the hospital with my firstborn, when all the crises - or things that appeared to be crises - arose, I remember thinking that I just wanted to get him home and be a mama to this little one. I felt like if I made a mistake, the hospital wouldn't discharge us; I wouldn't get to just go home and love my child. 

When they turned us loose, this mama duck was ready for the pond. 

Thus began years of learning, of wondering and trying and praying and sometimes guessing; of making mountains out of molehills and molehills out of mountains; of watching that little lad and those children who came after him as they slept and as they woke up beaming with joy - or occasionally burning up with fever; of savoring and wishing this moment didn't have to give way to the next, that chubby, dimpled elbows didn't have to disappear, that the charming mispronunciation didn't have to give way to the more sophisticated but mundane. 

But every day gave way, as my friend Joan promised, to new blessings. Baby speech gave in to thoughtful observation. Stumbling toddler steps became sure strides and independent decisions. And motherhood took on new hues, complex and vibrant. My own confidence grew, punctuated by the interrupting moments when I faced my errors and prayed that God would redeem the day. 

On April 16, 1981, I sat on my bedroom floor, pattern pieces laid out on fabric around me. I was cutting out an Easter outfit; my husband was on a four-day trip and was expected back soon; and my little one was trying to get to me. Knowing there were pins in the fabric and scissors lying around, and eager to finish my task, I reached out to lift his little approaching body off the fabric and to set him outside the busy area where he could destroy my work or be injured. I don't know if it was the third time or the ninth, but after I picked him up and placed my not-yet-ten-month-old son outside the work zone and onto the safe carpet, I let go of him, leaving him on his feet. And he. walked. back. 

It was surreal. For the moment, the garment I was making didn't matter. The rest of the day was filled with standing him up again, with seeing if he could add another step, with showing Daddy when he came home, with our unabashed excitement. Yes, children learn to walk everyday, but not our child!  I'm not sure I really thought such a day would come, and it had. 

The rest of the week was fun, as we watched our young achiever practice his newfound skill. When Sunday morning arrived, I proudly dressed him in his new sweet red-and-white Easter outfit, all finished by then and ready for him to wear to church. His daddy took pictures. I tried to get our little boy to walk to me in his pretty suit, but he seemed too tired. All throughout that day, he wouldn't really walk. 

I was a young mama. This child had only been walking a few days, and instead of thinking, "He's fine, give him a break," I worried. I don't know what I was thinking, but it concerned me, probably more than it should have. 

As the new week progressed, it became clear that my child was sick. I don't remember for sure, but I think it was an ear infection, and with a doctor's visit and antibiotics, he was soon back to his cheery self, perfecting his game and walking all over the place in a month's time. 

A week or two after Easter, we got the pictures back. Back then, of course, we had to turn in the film and wait. But as I looked at the images of my beloved little boy, resplendent in his Easter clothes, a sense of shame rose up in me. 

His eyes, usually so lively, looked weak and tired. The baby I'd insisted on setting repeatedly on his feet to walk for me looked ill and drained, his cherubic cheeks too red. I hadn't known yet that he was sick, but in the pictures it was painfully obvious. 


Guilt, your name is Mother. 

It wouldn't be the last time I would feel the remorse of having missed something that should have been obvious, of having been caught up in the moment to the point of missing the larger picture. It would happen more times than I'd want to predict in the ensuing years, because parents, even parents who fall naturally and easily into this blessed task, sometimes trip over their big, webbed feet and fall splat on their wet, duck-billed faces. 

I'm so thankful for grace. That I could bring my failings humbly to the One who saw fit to make me a mother, and know that His mercies are new every morning; that He could redeem that day and many, many more to come when I would fail in trying to raise this child and others who would be entrusted to my stumbling efforts. 


Yesterday my firstborn son turned 37 years old. It's been delight and relief to watch as God has over-arched my often poor attempts with His larger purposes; as He's brought my son to a point in his life where he is a dedicated follower of Christ; a devoted husband; a father blessed five times over; and a man who takes the responsibilities God has given him with utmost seriousness, knowing that our Father is patient even in our failings and never leaves our side as we purpose to serve our families and to be faithful stewards in such a sacred calling.


Happy birthday, Joshua. Thank you for your patience with an inexperienced mother. I love you; I pray for you daily; and I'm more thankful for you than I can put into words. May your feet continue to walk in His paths, your face remain resolutely set toward His.