Originally from a MOPS newsletter, winter 2012.  

When asked by my friend, Lea, to write a short essay about what I’m currently learning for the newsletter, my initial reaction was this: Are you kidding me, Lea?  I’m so tired I can hardly think straight, let alone write about learning something new.

I’m not usually such a downer, really I’m not.  It’s just that I’m aware of how little I’m retaining these days.  After all, I’m a mama to three young children, five and under, including an adorable baby girl.  I have trouble recalling lessons I’ve already learned.  I consider it a good day when I have enough mental energy to get dinner on the oak farm table in a timely manner.  It’s an even better day if the five of us are fed and I’ve not only washed, but put away our laundry.  Who am I kidding?  The laundry, even when folded, will be abandoned in the living room in piles for each family member on our caramel-colored couch.  I’m lucky to have my act together to bathe my kids more than once a week.

I’m may not be learning anything new, but I can tell you mindless things.  I can name how many half-gallon cartons of milk we go through a week (this was in the days before we went dairy-free), or how many of Lauren’s pacifiers should be in the pacifier jar by the garden window.  I can even tell you how much money I could be saving with coupons.

I don’t think Lea meant for me to write about such things.

Let’s redefine the question: What am I learning about God? 

Again nothing; or so I thought.

To be honest, I haven’t sat through an entire church service more than four or five times since Lauren’s birth in July.  These days I catch the sermon in the nursing lounge, surrounded by new and old mommy friends.  It’s not the same.  I get distracted.  It’s hard to worship before a TV monitor while my friends and I visit and feed our babies.

And it’s difficult to write about learning new lessons from God when you may or may not have a problem falling asleep during quiet times.  When I’m not falling asleep during sacred moments, God and I are usually interrupted by a certain cranky baby waking up early from her nap, or because my boisterous 3-year-old is trying to lick or bite his big sister.  Or because my tenderhearted 5-year-old found a bunny in our backyard.  The distractions go on and on; the learning doesn’t.

One early fall morning was no different.  I’m sure the scene is familiar to those who are in the trenches of motherhood.  I woke up (a little too) early by the baby.  She sleeps like a champ but decided not to this morning, which is the story of her now seven-and-a-half-month existence.  After coaxing Lauren back to sleep, I was tempted to go back to bed and hide under our warm down comforter with the Calvin Klein duvet.  But I decided to take advantage of the quiet house all to myself.  I picked up my Bible, the one with the worn black leather cover, with longing.  All I desired was to really hear from God, like I used to, coveting his presence sans interruptions from the little people in my life.  I began to read and pray, pouring out my guilt and frustrations to God about not having quality times with him anymore.  Instead of condemnation from him about what I could and should be doing, his tender voice spoke to my tired soul, reminding me that any time spent with him is quality time.  Come to me, he seemed to say to my heart. Come to me, covered in spit up, make-up less and tired.  Come to me anytime of the day or night.  Just come.

Just come.  Sigh.  I struggle with feelings of inadequacy, even as a child of God.   I often lose it with my kids, you see.  And I say things I should never say to my husband.  As I previously mentioned, I fall asleep when I attempt to pray or read my Bible.   I’m entirely too vain, I just know it.  I spend too much time worrying about the stretch marks that favor my right hip.  I waste hours of my life wondering if I’ll ever again fit into my pre-Lauren jeans before they fade out of style.  What’s more, my little house is constantly in a state of disaster.  If I have time to unload the dishes, the laundry is undone.  If I get to the laundry, then dishes take over my small kitchen.

But in all this negative self-talk, he reminds me to come.

He wants me to come to him because he thinks I’m something special, redeemable, even lovable, no matter what my house looks like.  No matter what I look like.  I’m learning once again that he’s all that matters.  He wants my heart, even when it’s going in a thousand directions.  He just wants me to come.

I’m reminded of my friend Lorrie, and what she told me when Lauren was born.

“Seize those quiet moments with God,” she said.  “Snatch them up any way you can get them.”

As a mother of twins, she should know.

So that’s what I’m learning these days, to seize quiet moments with God.  And in the process, my time with him is taking on a less traditional look.  I’m learning not to approach God like he’s an item to check off from my list.  No, I’m going for authentic moments, organic even.  I’m learning to set aside Bible reading plans, at least for now, and just pour out my heart to Jesus as I read my Bible.  I’m learning to listen to him as he quiets my attention-deficit soul.

I may smell like soy formula spit-up.  My dirty-blonde hair is a mess.  The bags under my eyes cannot be camouflaged, even by the finest concealer.  Don’t think for a moment I haven’t tried.  The view beyond my computer screen is of our tiny kitchen.  I see our white porcelain sink, overflowing with dinner dishes from the night before, and of bottles needing to be washed.  I spy half a dozen pacifiers needing to be rounded up and returned to the pacifier jar.  But my heart is full.  Because I’m learning once again just to come.

Just come.