Category Archives: Mothers

What I learned from Hannah’s story

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One of our pastors told us he had done a character study about Hannah recently and came away with a renewed admiration for this woman whose story is found in 1 Samuel chapters 1 and 2 in the Bible. My daughter was named Hannah which means “grace of God” in Hebrew because of the Biblical Hannah, a woman who struggled with infertility.  I identified with Hannah because I, too, struggled for years with infertility.  There was a time when doctors said we would never be able to have children.  A sympathetic friend said “no little girl grows up thinking she won’t be able to have children.”  How true for most of us who want desperately to be mothers.  We don’t just want to have children; we want to be moms with all that comes with that most important role.

Back then, before I was a mother, I had to read Hannah’s story several times before things starting jumping out at me.  One of the first things that hit me was her vulnerability to ridicule from Peninnah, her husband Elkanah’s other wife who had birthed sons and daughters.  I remember the feeling that something was wrong with me when someone would say they were pregnant and though I was happy for them, I felt as if I were deformed or lacking because I wasn’t pregnant and couldn’t seem to get pregnant.  It hurt terribly when people made comments that included words like, “you’re not a mother, …”, “when you have children of your own…”, or those who misused God’s own words by saying something about Him withholding this blessing because of sin in my life.  I cried buckets asking God to reveal to me what I was doing wrong.  One wonderful pastor’s wife, however, would tell me “when nothing makes sense, trust Him anyway.”  (Thank you, Jan!)   Because Hannah hurt in her infertility and God showed that hurt to me in her story, I felt better through my own pain.  Somebody did know what I felt, and that somebody was mentioned in the Bible. I was so thankful that her story, my story, was there and that God felt it was important enough, that the pain of being different from other women in that so very important way, was acknowledged.  I didn’t feel so alone in my hurt.    

I was then struck by Hannah’s absolute assurance that her prayer would be answered.  When Eli mistook her for a drunken woman because he saw her lips moving as she was silently praying in the temple and she then told him she was praying, he said, “Go in peace, and may the God of Israel grant you what you have asked of him.”  What’s amazing to me is that Hannah did!  She went in peace…stopped fasting, stopped looking sad…because she believed with her whole heart that God would answer her prayer.  She didn’t know how or when or even if his answer was going to be exactly as she imagined it would be in her prayer, but she believed it would be answered and that was enough for her, immediately.  I remember thinking how in the world did you let go of something like your desire to have a child in an instant.  And then I looked deeper and realized that she, like I, needed that reminder…the reminder that God is powerful.  Why else would she pray to God if she did not believe he wanted to hear her prayer? And if she believed he wanted to hear her prayer, she had to believe he was willing to answer it.  And if she believed he was willing to answer it, she had to believe he was able to answer it.  And the only way he would be able to do that is if he is powerful to do anything, including opening the womb of a barren woman so that she could bear a child.  I started thinking big then.  I started thinking that maybe, just maybe, God had a plan for me to be a mother.  As much as I wanted to be pregnant and go through the feelings and physical experience of growing a child inside me and giving birth, I accepted that may not be his plan; I would be grateful to be an adoptive mom.

The third thing about Hannah’s story was the scariest.  As she prayed for God to give her a son, she said, “I will give him to the Lord for all the days of his life” and then when he was weaned, probably about the age of four or five, she took him to Eli and left him to be raised for God by the priest.  Now wait a minute here, I thought.  How does a mother do that?  Not the give to the Lord or be raised for God part, but the physically separating yourself from your child and only seeing him one time a year the rest of his growing up years?  Would I be able to keep that promise?   Wouldn’t I say I didn’t really mean that part, God?  Wouldn’t I want to hold my baby every chance I could get until he was a man and I knew with all my heart I had given him everything I could for eighteen years to prepare him to be a man?  How could I kiss a four or five-year old goodbye and go home, knowing I wouldn’t see him for a year?  How could I let my little one go live with someone else?  How would I be able to explain that to him as he cried when I left, or how would I be able to live with myself as I lay in my own bed and cried thinking of him missing his mama?  Lord, I prayed, I don’t understand this. 

A couple at church lost their three-year old daughter in a drowning accident at about that time.  As the mother spoke during the funeral she said something that made it clearer than clear to me.  She said something like “God gave us our baby girl and she was always his.  I’m thankful for the time we had her with us.”

And also at about that time, we were looking into adopting and I was reading the stories of birth mothers who selflessly chose to place their children with others because they cared more about the life of their child being better than what they could offer than their own desires to keep that child in hardship circumstances. 

And I realized that Hannah not only kept her word to God, but she believed in his sovereignty.  She believed with every fiber of her being that the God who had given her this son was the Almighty.  How can you not trust the Almighty to take better care of your child than even you can?  She trusted him to do just that.  That more than amazed me…I coveted that trust.

As a Christian, I believe God breathes life into every child from the moment of conception because that’s the very start of that child’s life.  Human life doesn’t begin any other way and it doesn’t start before then and though the first breath is taken after birth, the growth and development, the changes, the miracle that makes that first breath possible starts at that point.  God says every child is a gift from him and the wonderful thing about a gift is that it is from a giver.  God is the giver of our children through birth or adoption, he is powerfully able to fulfill his purpose, and his sovereignty can be trusted because he is God.    

As each child came into my life, one by adoption, two by birth, I thanked God for the gift of their little lives.  I also acknowledged that they were his and have lived knowing that they are his, only mine for the season he determines.  In all stages in their lives, from infants to now as Hannah is driving herself around town, as Sam is in the midst of war overseas, and as Aaron is living with  risk and danger, I try to trust God with my children as Hannah did.  I pray for my babies, grown up as they are, and I thank God for the privilege of adopting, the privilege of experiencing pregnancy, the privilege of giving birth, the privilege of their very being.  And daily I give thanks for the marvelous privilege of God answering my prayers and making me their mother.

Who’s Talking Now?

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“Do you think they have them there?”  I asked my daughter as we pulled out of the driveway, going to find a little sock like thingy that attachs to the key ring and holds the car remote with the broken plastic piece that allows you to normally attach it to the key ring.

Hannah, texting while answering me, “I don’t know everything in their inventory.  We’ll have to see.”

“Ah,” I said, “but we expect you to know these things as you are the only one of us who has been there.”

She put down her phone and stared at me suspiciously, “And who is this “we” who expects me to know this?”

“Just me, myself and I,” I countered, thrilled to have that comeback.

She smiled and picked back up her phone that had buzzed.  “That would be the trio that has the crazy conversations.”

She knows me too well.  I am notorious for talking to myself, arguing with myself, questioning myself, answering myself, and maintaining a running conversation with just me, myself and I.  When I drive, I constantly talk to cars and streetlights.  I talk to the computer when it doesn’t do what I want it to do or when I’m trying to figure out what to do when I hit something I shouldn’t and the screen does its own thing.  I talk to the cats, but they listen and sometimes meow back.       

When my office was a cubicle in a large room with others, my poor coworkers were constantly saying “What?” or “Are you talking to me or you?”  When one was moved to another area he told me he had picked up my habit and now others were always asking him those questions.  When I told him I was sorry to have passed that on, he said, “Actually, I’m not, because it’s helped me sometimes.”

I think, seriously, that I am ADD and self-talk helps me focus on what I need to do, my thought process, my action plan one step at a time.  If I don’t talk myself through my tasks, I get lost as my mind flits, runs, flirts and wrestles with dozens of unrelated and irrelevant  thoughts and I find myself off task, off track, out of focus and floundering to get back to whatever it was I was supposed to be doing, or thinking.   I seem to only be focused when I am writing or talking – only at those times do the flighty trio of me, myself and I somewhat collaborate and stay, if not on the same line, at least on the same page.  

I have had people tell me this should make me a quick comeback person, but that is so not true for me.  I rarely, as in never,  have quick comebacks.  I’m the person who thinks of the comeback at 4 in the morning three weeks later.  And by then it is so good that I could kick myself for not having it when it could have been useful!  I wonder if talking to myself so much makes it difficult for me to respond in a timely manner to others?  I seem to fail miserably at sparkly social interaction outside my very own trio.  Someone gave me a magnet one time that said, “I live in my own little world, but it’s okay – they know me there.”  I can identify with that one. 

I also talk aloud to the Lord – Jesus Christ – and I know with all my heart He listens. 

I don’t buy into the positive self-talk stuff but I do buy into what God says about who we are and His promises.  When I googled talking to oneself aloud, however, this little tidbit came up.  “When you talk out loud to yourself you cause yourself to focus intently on the challenge, situation, or circumstance. This activity increases the likelihood of obtaining a desirable solution more quickly. It is easy to daydream nonproductively for an hour or two, but it only wastes time and doesn’t give you the results you’d like to have. It is incredibly powerful hearing your own voice emotionally proclaiming what you intend and expect to accomplish. Talking out loud to yourself can go a long way in helping you to move on.”
— Bill Wayne (from The Power of Talking Out Loud to Yourself)

 I actually like that because to me it makes sense. 

As Hannah, who is a student driver, was driving the other day a car seemed as if it were going to pull out in front of her. 

“No, car, don’t you do that!” she said and then glanced at me, grinning.  “Don’t say anything.” 

I couldn’t because I was laughing. 

When we came to the stoplight she looked over at me and laughed.  “Oh my gosh, I’m going to be just like you, aren’t I?  I’m already talking to cars and I don’t even have my license.”

 And the trio approves.

A Daughter for Life

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There is an Irish saying that you’ve probably heard – “A son is a son till he takes a wife, a daughter is a daughter all of her life.”  I’ve also heard it as “A son is your son till he takes a wife, a daughter is yours the rest of your life.” 

I’ve quoted the latter version often, and especially in conversation with my daughter as we’ve driven around on our shopping days speculating about the future.  When I say the verse she jokes, “Yeah, yeah, mom, I know.  I get to take care of you in your old age.  Better start saving up for a nursing home.”  We refer to that as her “Rosie” sense of humor.

I am, indeed, blessed to be the mother of this beautiful, talented, thoughtful, feisty, incredibly smart, and determined young lady! 

When I’m crying, sobbing, she puts her arms around me and holds me.  There are times I don’t think I can breathe but she is there, nurturing, giving, loving, supporting.  I am more grateful than I can say.  There are times I wonder where she gets her strength, but I do know, and I thank Him for it.  

When I fell asleep exhausted after so much stress, she ran around the house and did all my night-time chores rather than wake me.  When I asked her why she didn’t wake me, she curled against me on the bed and said, “You needed that sleep, mom.”  

She holds my hand every morning as we drive to school and prays with me.  And we are not “morning girls”.  We loathe getting up early which means we are both rushed, we are both irritable, we are both barely able to stumble out the door and when I’m on time, she isn’t, and when she’s on time, I’m running late, and by the time we feed the cats, feed the dog, wrestle the dog outside, fix lunches, gather our things, go back for all we’ve forgotten, we are both, to use a Southern expression, “fit to be tied!”  But as we turn the corner on 39th Avenue we hold hands and, together, we talk to God.  That is our time and it is sacred; I am so blessed to share it with her.  

When she is snappish, she is learning not only to check herself but to apologize.  As we’ve made adjustments, the girl who used to flounce about and never admit her wrong or faults owns her behavior now.  How proud I am when I see her visibly fight and win over self-control, when I see her consider her words before speaking them.  Just months ago she would have responded with flamboyant tantrums when her behavior was an issue.  Now, she makes the effort to be thoughtful in her words and actions, and she learns from each experience.  I cannot feel more blessed and I thank God for that.   

Together, we are walking through a thunderstorm looking for a rainbow.   

Mother-daughter relationships are complicated.  At sixteen, she is still a child who needs guidance, boundaries, encouragement, correction, and she still needs parenting…but not as much and not in the same ways as she did when she was little.   

She doesn’t need me to do her laundry since she turned ten.  That was our household rule: When you turn ten, you are responsible for your own laundry and it worked for all the kids.  Everyone learned how to use the washer and dryer, a useful life skill, win-win for all.  

She doesn’t need me to cook for her although she loves it when her brother comes home and I do cook.  She can cook as well as anyone and even better than many!  When she was about eight she made up her own recipe for cookies.  

She certainly doesn’t need me to do her homework though during my college math classes I needed her to do mine!  To me, math is a four letter word.  To her, it’s logical and, therefore, simple.  She’s in honors pre-calculus earning college credits now.

She’s doesn’t need me to show her how to use a computer.  Her skills surpass mine several times.

She doesn’t need me to help her prepare her lessons for the Sunday School class she teaches.  Her creativity and consideration for the children in her class warms my heart.  She recognizes the great responsibility of ministering to these children and puts much thought  into her lessons and activities for them.   

She doesn’t need me to choose her clothes, make up or hairstyle.  I’m proud of her own choices because the choices she makes in these areas are appropriate for her age, modest to reflect our values and beliefs, and she isn’t distracted by trends or the opinion of others.  A huge compliment is that others wonder if she is even wearing make up; another is that she is incredible with theatre make up.

She doesn’t need me to make decisions for her but she does talk through her thoughts, asks and listens to mine, and then comes to a decision of her own that reflects her maturity and forethought.  If we disagree, we continue talking until a compromise is reached.  If its something I am adamantly opposed to, she listens to the reason and respects the decision I’ve made, even if it’s not something she agrees with.  To me, that’s a sign of her emotional intelligence; the ability to both compromise and accept authority. 

No, she’s not perfect.  Her room is messy, her bathroom is somewhat messy, she doesn’t always do the dishes before going to bed, I have caught her drinking out of the milk jug, she sometimes stays up too late, she ate the last peanut butter cookie without telling me, and I have to nag her to get her homework done…but her heart is good, her head is good, and she is well on her way to being one amazing young woman.  How could I not be proud of that?

And I pray for God to prepare an equally wonderful young man who will someday have the privilege of capturing her heart.  But not yet and no time soon. I still need her.    

As I was wondering just what she needs from me besides the physical things like food, shelter, clothing, and drives to Circle K to get Dr. Pepper at all hours of the night,  I remembered the poem she presented to me when she was in grade school.  It hangs on my bedroom wall, a reminder of how she did, does, and always will need me.  I am her mother and she is my daughter.  That is for life.

My Mother

My mother is a storm: strong and brave,

Facing hardships and taking risks for what she believes.

My mother is a breeze: calming and gentle,

Taking away worries and soothing my soul.

My mother is a pool: refreshing and energetic,

She relaxes me with a sudden burst of energy.

My mother is a rose: beautiful and graceful,

She rises above the bad and changes with grace.

My mother is a teddy bear: snuggly and soothing,

She’s always there for me and relaxes my mind.

Love, Hannah