Tag 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.

Breakfast Brownies

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We’ve started a thing, Hannah and I.  Brownies for breakfast.  Not just plain chocolate brownies but brownies with walnuts and peanut butter.  Yum.  It came about because she ate my last cherry turnover one night – my favorite breakfast treat.  Looking in the cupboard I came across a walnut brownie mix that I have no idea how it got into my cupboard and told her to make them after school the next day.  And she did.  I came home after working late to the oh-so-decadent fragrance of warm, gooey, chocolatey brownies still sitting on top of the stove.  More yum. 

I got busy and forgot about them (I think the smell had me mesmerized into thinking I’d actually consumed one) but when I went to make the coffee I noticed them, still perfectly uncut in the brownie pan.  I quickly cut them and placed them under the glass covered cake pedestal that had housed a bundt cake a few weeks ago.  Hannah trailed out of her room (the cave), saw them and had one.  

“Breakfast,” she said. 

And that started it.  We’ve since made walnut brownies each week and cut them into cute little squares and placed them prettily on display, the perfect morning sweet.

My kids have always loved brownies.  One of my favorite memories of brownie baking is of Sam at around four.  He would sit up on the counter as we made brownies.  He’d pour in the mix, crack and add the egg, pour in the measured oil and water, and stir.  Oh, it was messy and it wasn’t perfect but it was absolutely, perfectly wonderful.  One day as we chatted while we went through our process he got really quiet and looked at me seriously.

“Mommy?”  (How I miss those days of being Mommy!  I cried for a week when I became Mom.)

“Yes, Sam?”  A speck of chocolate flour was on his nose and the goopy brownie mix had traveled from his hands to up his arms with a little tale-tell bit around his mouth where he’d licked the stirring spoon.

“Will my wife know how to make brownies?”

Be still my heart!  Where is this coming from?  Ah, yes.  Often when we prayed together at night I would ask God to bless the girls that would someday be the wives of our boys.  I would pray for them to have good homes, with parents who loved them, and to know safety.  I would pray for them to know Jesus…for them to come to know Him.  I would pray for God to prepare these little girls to be the women He had planned for them to be so that they could be the best wives for these little boys. And then I’d pray for the boys to be good men.  And Sam had listened.

“I don’t know, my Sammie Lamb, but I hope so. Not all girls are raised to know how to cook, but if she wants, we can teach her. ”

His face frowned in concentration as he contemplated something so foreign to what he himself knew.   I was blessed to be able to be at home part of the day, to be able to cook and bake and savor the fleeting, precious moments while my babies were young.  Every day brought something new and warm and amazing to discover about my children, and every moment brought them closer to growing up.

He gave the mix a vigorous stir and handed it to me to pour into the pan and hung his head sadly, “Okay… but she needs to be able to make brownies.”

I tried to hide the giggle that bubbled at his seriousness.  “Well, son, if she can’t, you can.  You know how to make brownies.”

His gaze shot to mine and a slow grin spread along with a decisive nod.  “Yes, I can.  I can make the brownies.”  And with that he was off the counter, racing to find Aaron and get back to their Star Wars Battle Station Galactica play set.  I knew that as soon as they heard the timer buzz they’d both be there, ready for milk and warm brownies.

Brownies aren’t just for breakfast; they’re an offering, a delicious prayer that my grown up babies will find that safe, sure, and giving love with a special someone  God has prepared for them.

Someone who will take the time to go into the kitchen of life with them, open a box of brownie mix, and together add the ingredients that are as necessary for brownies as for marriage.  Faith in God like eggs to hold it all together; purpose like water that converts sucrose to glucose and maltose to glucose, to make committed decisions and thoughtful choices that lead them toward their shared goals; and ardor like oil to moisten their lives with laughter, adventures, and memories.  Maybe they’ll throw in some nuts for fun, or some peanut butter for whimsy.  And as the years go by, they will stir and stir, pour and bake, and create something more wonderful than they could ever imagine, just because all the right things were added.  

Because without those key ingredients, a brownie is just not a brownie.

It’s only Monday and the walnut-peanut butter-brownie pile has dwindled noticeably.  I admit nothing.  Hmmm.  Better get the brownie mixing bowl out again.  Can’t start the day without a good breakfast brownie!

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.