Christian moms, this one is for you.
“That’s it? That is all the juice we get!” gasped my 4-year-old son in disgust as he eyed the small amount of orange liquid yielded from the pile of oranges we had juiced.
My older son begged for us to make homemade, fresh-squeezed orange juice with our breakfast, so I obliged. There is something about the taste of fresh juice, isn’t there?
I had to cling to hope that somehow, things would be resolved. “It hurts so bad, Mom. Help me.” I can still hear my son’s desperate cries of agony echoing in my mind. After several emergency room visits, appointments with various specialists, and lots of tests, we had no answers for the cause of his physical pain.
Here she is again—the anxious mama in me. Overwhelmed. Defeated. Tense. Weary.
I know my kids feel my angst and anxiety. They can see it in my face, my tired eyes, and in the tone of my voice. They see it by the way I move around. It’s in the air of our home.
“Stop it. Don’t do that.”
“Ugh, another spill? Come on.”
“Now what’s the matter?”
“Leave your brother alone.”
The uncontrollable tears streamed down this weary mama’s face. I looked around and saw the piled laundry on the table, toys and crumbs covering the floor, and my boys fighting yet again.
Freedom.
It’s like a friend from high school that I lost touch with. I know she’s there, but I haven’t seen her in so long that I begin to doubt she truly exists. I’ve realized that underneath my frustration and bitterness at times as a mom…is a deep longing for freedom.
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