The Beauty in Our Wrinkly Grandmas

It had been a few weeks. She’d had a massive stroke and subsequent little ones. She’d have days where she was unresponsive, and then the next day it was like she would rally all of her strength. If Tyra Banks and America’s Next Top Model never convinced you of smiling eyes (“smeyes”), Mary Lou would have showed you perfectly that eyes really can smile even when a mouth struggles to. She’d grab your hand with her one good hand and look you long in the peepers. It was like she was trying to simultaneously memorize your face and communicate everything she loved about you. She couldn’t talk, but she’d still force out the most important words: “I love you.” “Goodbye.”

 I think I will forever carry with me the memory of Granma the last time I saw her, her skinny frame heaped up on pillows. I saw the wrinkles carved deep into her face and hands--maybe they’d never looked so pronounced before. She wore on her body the life she’d lived. Aged to perfection, really. A life fully lived.

When I brought Sam over to her, only her second time seeing him, she grabbed for his little knuckle-dimpled hand with her one working hand. Sam gave her a smile, and she took that moment like a lemon drop and tucked it into her cheek so the joy could linger as long as it would.

Beauty is the smooth fresh skin of a baby. Dimples and rolls covering all the possibility and hope of a life just beginning.

Beauty is the wrinkled skin of a 91 year old woman. Loose skin and laughter lines—a life emptied out and lived down to the last drop.

When I first met Mary Lou, I was struck by how when you’d listen to her wide-eyed joy, you’d just know it: God delighted in this woman. I knew she wasn’t perfect, and in some ways her life was messy. But she was walking proof that God doesn’t love us because we are perfect, He loves us because we are His. She radiated the joy of the Lord. She did. It was like this part of her just refused to grow old and crusty. There was always something fresh about her even when her bones were tired. She had a childlike faith and wonder. She was downright spunky. She loved simple things like balloons, flowers, babies and the bright colors of spring.

She was ridiculously generous. She didn’t leave a whole lot behind, but that’s only because she spent her whole life giving it away. She invested in her family—her worries, her prayers, her faith and every extra bit of money she had. Our dreams were her dreams. When I think over the ten years of holding her grandson’s last name and every time she helped push one of our dreams to reality… I can think of one word to describe her generosity: extravagant. She emptied and emptied herself for those she loved, always trusting God to refill.  

 She stayed between the hospital and the convalescent hospital for a month and defied the doctors’ expectations. That seemed just like her. Determined. Like the time she needed knee replacement surgery but refused to get it till after our wedding, just so she could have one dance with my husband. It didn’t matter if her knee hurt, she smiled at Michael like she was five and dancing with him was cotton candy.

And then last Sunday, after a day of scattered rain and autumn leaves, the kind of day where the earth smells fresh and cold, God said it was time and Granma followed Him to her heavenly home.

On this side of heaven, death is hard. We cling to the hope of eternity. Even though we know we must all die one day and we are fortunate for the time we get with someone, death leaves a hole in us. It’s as though we fill the graves we dig not with displaced dirt but with the substance of own our soul.

We know we all must part with our grandmas one day, but how we miss them when they are gone.

Vibrant, beautiful, generous, present, spunky and ours.

We miss you, Granma.

By Grace, 

Amanda Conquers

PS. I know I haven't been posting very much these days. I have a project that I've been working so my posts will probably be sparce for a few more months still. Thank you for sticking around. I value you and pray for you... I really do. I look forward to sharing what I've been working on.


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When You Think You Might Not Be Strong Enough to Mother a Strong-Willed Child

The spring of 2013, my husband had just started patrol working nights. We had moved, and boxes were piled up everywhere. If those two life changes weren’t enough, the church we met at, got married at, dedicated our kids at, shut its doors and moved two cities over.

I do not deal well with change. And in the span of one month, it felt like the landscape of my life had completely changed. I struggled with sleep. I felt anxious. Depression settled in over my life like valley fog on a dark night.

About the time of the move, we realized Jed would need to be moved from his crib into a toddler bed, not because we were ready, but because, at 19 months, he was the kid that fought bedtime by rocking his crib until it fell over. It was as if Jed decided he wouldn’t trouble himself figuring out how to climb out of the crib. Oh no, by sheer brute strength and an iron strong resolve, he would bend that crib to his will. 

(I had no idea toddlers came that way—so head-strong and unrelenting.)

That’s about how bedtime went when we moved him to the big boy bed, only there were no longer sides of a crib to push against. There was only Mom. And since Dad now worked nights, there really was only Mom.

And he pushed.

I remember huddling in my living room, tears streaming. It was midnight. And I wondered what kind of mom can’t get her kids to sleep by midnight? I was in that desperate place, the one where my Hail-Mary bedtime strategy was to hide out, cross my fingers, and hope that by some miracle Jed would go to sleep on his own. I had tried everything. I didn’t have any more energy.

I wish I could say there was only one night like that. Nope. If we lived in the time of walled cities and castles, I would proudly tell you that my son has the stamina of a siege warfare warrior. It took two exasperating months of three hour bedtime battles before Jed finally conceded. My sanity, my sleep, my patience, and my pride all lay on the battlefield splayed and bleeding, casualties of toddlerdom.

They say Motherhood isn’t for the faint of heart.

And if you happen to ask, “But what if you are faint of heart?” Well, Motherhood, she laughs out loud and says, “Buckle up, Buttercup. It’s going to be a long and bumpy ride.”

That spring, I was struggling. My family was in transition, and transition feels like falling apart.

As much as I wanted Jed to sleep at a decent time and have a blessed hour of a quiet house to myself, what I really wanted was to help Jed. I wanted to walk him through the transition of crib to bed, of old house to new home, of baby who needs mom for everything to little boy who can do some things on his own. And when I sat huddled in the living room, I felt like I had bled out every last bit of knowledge, grace, long-suffering, gentleness, kindness… and it wasn’t enough. I wasn’t enough. And I was empty. And I was failing.

I couldn’t walk through transition myself; I wanted to be to the other side. And I wasn’t walking my son through the transition; I wanted him to be on the other side.

The last time I wrote here I used this phrase to describe the strength of a mother: The only way out is through. A few weeks back, my friend lent me Surprised by Motherhood by Lisa-Jo Baker (and I devoured it and loved it and highly recommend it), and I love that she said the exact same thing one word different: “The only way through is through.”

Because it really is the grace rhythm we mommas walk: through and through and through. We make it through. Sometimes it looks a bit like clenched-teeth determination and sometimes it looks like knees to the floor and tears streaming.

It’s hard, you know. When you are struggling, when you feel weak, and right there in front of you is this child who you love to the moon and back, with your whole big heart, forever and ever throwing what feels like a month long temper tantrum with a few breaks in there to eat and play.

David says this in the Psalms: “I am poured out like water, and all my bones are out of joint. My heart is like wax; it is melted within me. My strength is dried up like a potsherd” (22:14-15). And I totally get that feeling. Motherhood is this place where you feel emptied out and emptied out and emptied out and there always seems to be more you need to give.

And when you have that moment where you want to just hide your head under the couch cushions, because of that great pull on your heart, you keep going through anyways. And that’s a mother’s love.

The only way out is through.

Perhaps that pull on our hearts was meant to pull us to our knees. And if we let it, it will pull us to the side of Jesus and slow us down. It will get us so that rather than battling our relentless child, we start praying relentlessly for him.  It will get us so that we refuse to move without Him with us. And when lay our “not enough” self at the altar, we are taking up the One who came to be more than enough.

“My Grace is sufficient for you, for power is perfected in weakness” (2 Corinthians 12:9).

You don’t have to be strong. You don’t have to have it all figured out. And it’s okay if you feel like you might be a little faint of heart.

You only have to lean.

Jesus will walk with you, and you and He will walk your child, and two years later when you look back on that season of transition, you will find that your desperate Jesus-clinging walk looks a lot more like strong resolve. Because He really is strength in our weakness and to be a Mother you only have to be strong enough to lean.

Okay, and now since we are called the Body of Christ for a reason, I do believe we were meant to lean on each other too. Will you share with us? Do you have a strong-willed child? If you are in the midst of a difficult season with that child, will you let us know so we can pray for you? Would you share any parenting tips (gently and respectfully) with us?

(And on that note: I covet your prayers. In the transition to three kids, parenting has been pretty messy over here.) 

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers

The Strength of a Mother {and a Birth Story}

I was waiting for it to be time.

I was lying in bed trying to catch some sleep, getting the distinct impression I would not be getting any sleep that night.

In the middle of a contraction, my body quaked and I downright felt my water burst within me. In fact, it so startled me and jerked inside me that I thought I might be opening my eyes to behold my heavenly home.

I called my sister to come for the kids, I told my husband it was time. It’s time as in I am SURE and this baby is coming SOON. We loaded up and sped off to the hospital.

It was back labor; the baby’s head was posterior. Not sunnyside, but against my tailbone. And in case this isn't obvious: yes, it hurt. A lot.

When we arrived at the hospital, they skipped triage and put me straight into the birthing room. I don’t think they felt the need to question whether this was active labor. I certainly didn’t.

I labored and contracted in the bed while it took 3 different nurses and 1 anesthesiologist to insert a saline lock into veins that wanted to run away from them. My arms still bare the poke-marks and bruises.

I kept begging to get off the bed, asking the nurses to hurry up. I just knew I needed to move the baby off my back. I labored for two hours, on the bed, kneeling against the bed, sitting and holding my husband, kneeling over the top of the bed. I struggled to stay on top of the pain, on top of the contractions. When I told my mom I just couldn’t do it anymore, the pain was just too much, she smiled and said, “This is it. You’re in transition. It’s almost over.”

I wailed, “No I’m not! The contractions aren’t close enough together!” I think she might have laughed to herself. (Perhaps it should be mentioned in Jed’s transitional labor, the contractions were on top of each other and I never had more than seconds to catch my breath.)

And then I could feel it, the heaviness, the bearing down.

When it came time to push, all the excitement of discovering boy or girl melted away into a puddle of panic.

It was that moment where I was face to face with my greatest fear. The one that’s haunted me this entire pregnancy: Could good things really happen to me? It had lingered in the back of my mind, even brought about nightmares, that at some point something would go horribly wrong. I felt I just couldn’t face it.

When they told me to push, I cried out, “I can’t!” I wasted a few contractions fighting the urge to push. And when they assured me I really could, through ripping pain and hot tears, I exclaimed, “No, I really, really can.not.do.this! I can’t!”

 And the thing is, no matter how weak I felt in that moment, no matter how much I thought I really just couldn’t, the only way out was through.

Along with my husband, my mom and mother-in-law were my support team.

And the thing is, sometimes I feel like I’m a weak person. I am sitting here in all my postpartum glory a little bit ashamed as I weep over everything, have anxiety plaguing me as my pregnancy hormones leave my body, as I need so much help with everything (that back labor I mentioned, it kind of put my back out).

I had told my husband a few days back that maybe I just can’t handle very much. Maybe I am just a weaker person. Stunned, he looked at me and said, “Amanda, you’re the strongest person I know.”

And maybe we do that as women. Take our births that don’t go as planned and wear it as shame. The last minute decisions to get that epidural when we meant to go all natural; the unplanned caesarian that maybe feels a bit like you are less because you gave birth differently; the Pitocin that was needed to start a labor that never wanted to start; the milk that never came in or dried up too early. The postpartum hormonal crash that leaves us feeling not quite human, maybe struggling to bond with the baby we so wanted, or just feeling completely overwhelmed by life and change and new love.

We chalk it up to weakness. We feel ashamed. And maybe we miss the part where the only way out was through… and we, mommas, we’ve walked through.

And no matter how you went through, you carried life into the world.

And there’s something about sentence that needs to linger in the air:  

You’ve    carried    life    into    this    world.

The instant they pull that baby from your body, something of heaven touches earth. Within you life was formed, and through you life was carried.

And momma, no matter where you are sitting right now, be it struggling to come through a season of loss or knee-deep in laundry and dish piles or worried about whether you are doing it all wrong with the baby who still won’t sleep through the night.

Whatever kind of sudden or enduring life-storm you are sitting in the middle of, whatever the changing season…

This I know, you might need to lean on your friends and your family and your husband… and you definitely need to lean on your Savior. But you will make it through.

The big siblings singing "A Swimming Shark" to baby

Okay. And now I am so thrilled to introduce you to Samuel. His name means “God has heard” and it is through tears (which seem to come very frequently these days) that I get to proclaim the miracle that God heard my cries and saw the longing in my heart. He heard my kids’ prayers and my husband’s. And I do believe and am praying that God will hear the voice of this boy as he grows. Though we walked through a season of loss and sorrow, our bundle of joy arrived early one Sunday morning. (And isn't that a bit poetic?)

Little Samuel is healthy and has the sweetest countenance. We are in love. And in awe.

(Psalm 30:5b)

I’d love to hear your birth stories in the comments. And if you dealt with the postpartum hormonal crash. Help all us mommas know we all do this a little different and a little bit the same and that it’s all covered by His Grace?

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers

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For the Mom Who Finds Sunday Mornings Downright Hard

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Hey, Momma. I see you there, weary-faced, babe sleeping your arms, and beside you a toddler squirming like a worm freshly emerged from the soil. I see you there with your child who still outright refuses to go to his class. I see you occupying the back row, swaying with the crying babe on your hip in the foyer, or practically excommunicated to the nursing room when your baby does anything other than sleep. I see you walking in late, wearing a little bit of shame at your perpetual tardiness. I see you there woman who is wife to the deacon, the pastor, the man who works graveyards, weekends, or overseas. I see you sitting alone, wrangling kids alone. I see you there Momma who isn’t married at all.

I see you there Momma who struggles with wanting to go on a Sunday morning because it’s just so exhausting. I understand how it might seem like you could get more out of your at-home Bible studies than attempting to listen and worship alongside a squirmy kid and a crying baby.

Momma, you might feel like you are unseen, less important, the wild-cry tamer. You might feel like the call to come forward for prayer or communion is for the ones not holding babies. You might feel like sitting in the very back with your kids and guarding the silence is your humble sacrifice to the body of Christ.

But let me tell you something, when Jesus told his disciples, “Suffer not the little children to come unto me” (Matt 19:14), He wasn’t speaking lightly. He was rebuking his disciples. And He really meant little children. Not just the years when kids love going to kids’ church and when they have some kind of attention span. He didn’t just mean the years beyond squirmy, screamy toddlerdom, or the terrible two’s, or, Lord help us, the defiant threenager years. He meant little children. The original Greek word used in that passage, paidion, actually means infant or young boy or girl, less than seven years old.

Momma, when you go to church, you are not just one person. You are entrusted with the care of little lives too. You are entrusted with modeling what it looks like to be a part of the body of Christ, what it looks like to follow Christ. Your mom-job all by itself is a really big deal.

I am not trying to argue that one shouldn’t teach young kids good behavior or that some of the elements of worship are done with soberness and respect. But, Momma, will you give yourself some grace? Will you recognize your value? Will you stop living in fear and trembling of the usher walking up and telling you your kids are being disruptive?

In your arms, you hold an unreached people group and a really great reason to go to church and to think you have to hide out in the very back or cover up the sin nature all babies are born with {and all toddlers kind of throw in your face} so misses the heart of Jesus.

Momma, do you know how precious YOU are to Him? How precious THEY are to Him?

Your kids are not your excuse to stay back, they are your reason to go forward. They are your reason to worship and sing and cry out for Jesus.

It’s not just that there is something about those little years that make us feel tired, desperate and bring out all our own insufficiencies… It’s that when you humble yourself and let your child watch you need Jesus, you both get to be apart of the miracle.

You and your kids see heaven touch your dusty clay earth.

No matter how exhausting of a task it might be to do without a husband, when you walk into the that church, when you hold that child in your arms as you sing out in worship, when you walk up to the front, kids in tow, to receive the elements of communion, when you go down to that altar and kneel with your little people surrounding you, when you pray and let the tears fall as you ask Jesus to meet you where you are, you aren’t the only one going to the foot of the cross. No, you are carrying your babies with you.

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Here’s where I get a little vulnerable and tell you how much this has been my struggle for the past two years. And one I have failed at miserably quite a few times. It’s been really hard to want to go to church lately, hard to go by myself, hard to know my kids will probably beg to sit with me instead of going to their classes, hard to know I am going to have to shush and watch and cross my fingers and hope that no one yells or runs into the aisle this time. It’s hard to not feel like I have a home church yet, to still feel unknown.

I want to just stay home, use my husband’s job as an excuse. I want to throw a pity party and look at all the other families who go and have a husband and a wife and kids whose socks match and hair is brushed. I want to look at the wife who has someone to help her when the boy gets rambunctious. But, you guys, I am finding that when I do it anyways, when I recognize the value and the weight of my mom-job, when I care more about my little people He actually entrusted to me than everyone they might disrupt… God’s grace is just so abundant. He really is willing to be strength for our weak places.

Maybe this sounds weird, but I can hear it… God whispering, “Well done.” I hear it when I’ve chosen to walk up to the front with both kids holding my hands to receive the elements of communion. I hear it when I have knelt at the altar and cried out to the Lord with both kids sitting right beside me. I hear it when I’ve closed my eyes during worship so I could turn my focus to the Lord and open them to find my kids clapping off beat, raising their hands, doing a happy dance, singing.

I just know it. I am modeling what it means to follow Christ. Perhaps, I am doing one better than the teaching they do in the Sunday school class, I am showing them. No, it’s more than that, I am carrying them with me.

I’d love to hear from you (whether you have help from your husband or not because I have a feeling sometimes getting to church is just hard for all of us). Have you ever felt like it was super hard to go to church with your kids?

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers

The Thing About Daughters

I originally wrote this to read aloud at a best friend's baby shower over the weekend. She's expecting her first daughter. {Squee!}  I wanted to share it with you too! 

I’ve heard it said that a baby is a mother’s own heart walking outside her body.                     

And there is something about a daughter that just makes this extra true. 

It doesn’t matter if you are the mom that made a special Pinterest-inspired pegboard to organize an almost shameful-to-admit number of bows or if you are the mom that secretly wonders if you can hack it as a girl-mom when you know how to accomplish exactly zero hairstyles…unless the ponytail counts.

When a little girl comes into your life and calls you mom, she will stretch you, change you, hold a mirror up to your own female self and challenge it.

When she’s little, you’ll watch your daughter full of her child-like wonder, and you’ll remember what it was like: the days of pink and longing for tutu’s and ballet slippers, the way you used to dance on the coffee table and ask for your papa’s attention. You’ll remember how you could make a mud pie, domesticate a jar for your lady-bug pet, and just how much it meant to you when your momma would buy you a twirly Sunday-best dress and then set you on the counter to curl your bangs.

Your daughter will tell you how pretty you are for years. She’ll likely have opinions about your clothes, and might even dig out the bridesmaid dress from the back of your closet and beg you to wear it for your trip to the grocery store.

She will probably sing about everything. You might even catch her singing her own song about how beautiful she is. It’ll melt your heart. You’ll both beam with pride at her self-confidence and cringe at the stark contrast in the way you view your own self through your flaws. You will make it your mission in life to protect her confidence and her beauty. You recognize the value of those things because at some point in your own journey someone or something tried to rob you of them.

There’s the moment you first encounter mean girls at the park. It will surprise you how young it happens, how sharp and diva-like one three-year-old girl can wield the words, “I don’t want to play with you.” And when your daughter looks to you, eyes big and wet, it will cut into your own heart—make you remember all the mean girls you ever encountered. You’ll do your best to reel in your inner momma bear, and you’ll do your very best to brush off the sharp marks those kind of words can leave.

There will come a time when she will confess that she doesn’t like something about herself: her hair, her freckles, her teeth, her birthmark. She’ll tell you how the kids made fun of her for it. It’ll catch you off-guard, because you look at her and you see beauty, you see someone marvelous and full of purpose, someone you love perfectly and wholly.

{A mother’s love is like that.}

She’ll imitate you, watch you, want to be you. She’ll mother her younger siblings, her stuffed animals, her dolls. While boys might want to make everything fight or blow up, she’ll want to band-aide and haircut and comfort.

She is your legacy. One day she will pick up the torch you have held in your own home and she will hold it in hers. She won’t fill her daddy’s shoes, for she’s meant to fill yours.

She’ll notice whether or not you swim in your swim suit, the comments you make about yourself in the fitting room, how you answer when she asks you how much you weigh. But the thing is, what she’s noticing isn’t how fluffy your stomach is or how dimply your thighs or how that mole sticks up right next to your nose… she’s noticing if any of that stuff bothers you.

You’ll relish in the moments where the parenting curtain is pulled back and you see in her a friend. She’ll say honest things spoken from a hopeful heart that will pierce the jaded places in your own heart. You’ll laugh together till your sides hurt, and you will share inside jokes. There will come a day when you would actually prefer to take her shopping with you than enjoy an afternoon shopping without kids.

It will probably shock you at some point, the way you mirror each other. She will battle the same insecurities you did. She is a piece of your own beauty and flaws, your gifts and talents, your sensitivity, the way you used to dream, the way you respond to conflict, the way you process life.

Maybe there will be that moment when she will come home from school with her first broken heart—be it from a boy crush, cruel words, or a failure in sports or academics. She might declare herself ugly, not smart, too short, too slow. And you, Momma, this is your shining chance to fight for her self-worth. You will tell her how beautiful she is, all the little pieces of individual-fabulousness of her that you adore.  When she tells you that you are only saying that because you are her mom and you have to, you will drag her in front of the mirror and declare that you will not leave until she can tell you all the best parts of herself.

Because maybe the world will try to break her down, tell her who she is and who she isn’t, tell her what’s she’s worth and wrap up far too much of that worth in ridiculous physical standards. But that’s why God made you, Girl-mom. You are her very own advocate, the one who knows that deep-down feminine place of longing to be beautiful, of longing to be enough. And you, Girl-mom, you are the one that can be her very own mirror and show her the value of a woman and her own self.

When we think about having a girl, we think of bows, dress up, and tea parties.  But the thing about a daughter is that she’s your very own feminine heart, walking outside your body.

Raising a girl is this glorious chance to fall in love with your own self the way the Father loves you.

And there’s so much grace in the fact that she didn’t come with your baggage, your life experiences, your pain. She is new and fresh and precious. She’s not your chance to go back and relive your own life better; she’s her own person created for His glory. She’s your chance to see yourself differently, and your high calling to advocate for, fight for, pray for and love perfectly.

And maybe this girl-mom thing is a bit terrifying, you’ll want to protect her from all the things you can’t control. And maybe it will be hard. But you can trust Jesus, walk with Him, lean on Him.

Because, yes, she will face pain and heartache, but you, full of the Spirit’s leading, will be there to guide her through it.

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers

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The Perfect Sized Family

This last week, I laundered all the baby stuff. I got the good detergent, lovingly folded each little piece of baby clothing, held a few pieces up to my chest trying to remember what it was like to have such a tiny human nuzzled up under the crook of my neck. I think this might be the one time I love doing laundry.  

My daughter walked into the room while I was sitting behind our ottoman that had a three-feet-and-climbing laundry pile. Addy held up a newborn onesie and marveled at the size. She asked what prefolds are. She was wanting me to explain it all. Really, I think she wanted assurance that she would have a special place in our growing family.

Addy declared that all downstairs diapering will be hers to do. And while I don’t think she has any idea what that really looks like (or how often that looks like), I love her heart. She wants to be apart. She wants to be my helper.

I set down the blanket I was folding, and I showed her how to diaper on her stuffed animal.  She asked about the muslin receiving blankets so I told her about how newborns like to be tucked in tight just like when they are in their momma’s tummy. I laid out the blanket and showed her how. And really, even though it was Addy asking the questions, I am trying to remember myself, prepare myself, for what it's like to have a newborn. 

Jed came in into the room just as I handed Addy her swaddled and diapered dog.  He grabbed his stuffed animal so it could get the same treatment. Jed wanted all the explanations and how-to’s. He wanted to be apart too.

For the rest of that day, I got to watch my kids taking care of their “babies.” They built a baby crib-fort for their babies to sleep in, made their babies cry and consoled them, dug out the bottles I haven’t yet sanitized and pretended to feed their babies. I listened to Jed’s questions for his sister about how babies work. I smiled at all of Addy’s answers.

It took my breath away—the overwhelming and abundant grace in those moments. We are preparing. All of us. Our hearts are expanding, making room for this baby. These days are filled with dreams and hope, and an anxious desire to meet the one with whom we’ve already fallen in love. I am well aware that being both “great with child” and raising children—its blessing is doubly sweet. I am growing into the mother of three babies. And I am watching the two I have been raising grow into a big sister and brother to this baby.

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If you were to ask me when I first got married how many kids I would have or when I planned to have kids, I would have told you:  “Four to six kids, and we will have them about every two years.”

When Mike and I talked about having kids and when and how many, we both agreed. We’d have all our kids, then we’d raise them, then we’d send them off into adulthood and then we’d enjoy an empty nest again. Bing. Bang. Boom. Just like that. 

We valued the positives in having kids close in age. We’d also focused on the negatives from our own childhoods of having our siblings spaced out.  

Maybe this will sound silly, but I am pretty well having my mom’s family. And it weirds me out. (We both had our oldest child when we were 25. Thus far, our kids are spaced out the same. And it will be strange if this baby happens to be a girl, because then I will also have the same gender order. )

It’s not at all how I would have planned my life. In fact, I think I would have ran in the opposite direction of this. But having kids closer together in age just hasn’t been possible for us.  

I struggle with surrender. I might know God ways are better and higher… but still, I tend to gravitate towards my own plans. I may have even once come up with a list of pros and cons to determine how many kids and how far apart they should be. My own plans always look good in writing, mostly because God’s plans require a measure of trust, and the writing of His plans only become plain as the story is being lived.

But this last week, watching my kids who are excited, ready and able to process this change, and no longer toddlers prepare for their baby brother or sister… It grabbed a hold of my heart, and filled it to overflowing. It’s good, guys. God’s plans are good.

I wouldn’t for all the world go back and rewrite my story another way, even if it meant I could erase all the heartache and struggle wrapped up in the reasons our kids aren’t closer together in age. Watching my son sing into my belly, beg me to show him one more time what the baby looks like, hearing all the things he plans to teach his baby brother or sister…  The way Addy is actually going to be able to help me; the way she without even meaning to speaks words that prick my momma heart and encourage me onward; the way she’s become, even if in just a small way yet, my friend…  The way this baby isn’t just my miracle but my family’s miracle because we all prayed for it, longed for it, waited for it... We are now living in the glorious days of great expectation.

I am learning that for all my pro’s and con’s, there isn’t a magical number of children that everyone ought to have, nor is there a perfect way to space your kids out. If you have been comparing your family to another’s, knock that off right now. God writes good stories, and He never writes the same story. Single, married without kids, adoption, one kid, the magical one boy and one girl, five rambunctious boys, three girlie girls and a tomboy mom, remarried with six kids between you two… they all are beautiful stories, though no doubt full of wrestling between best laid plans and how life is actually going. They are full of set backs and triumphs; deep heartache and heart-bursting joy. They are full of invitations to surrender, to trust. They are full of learning that God can and will use it all for His glory.

Dear heart, hold on, the story is still being written.

“Eye has not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man, the things which God has prepared for them that love Him.” 1 Corinthians 2:9

I would love it if you would share this little piece of your story: What was your plan for kids? And how many kids, if any, do you actually have and what are their ages?

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers




Sharing in this lovely community of storytellers:

The Road Trip

We took a road trip a few weeks back. With two young kids. When I was 30-31 weeks pregnant. We spent 11 days on the road, slept in six different places, drove 3,000 miles, visited 3 national parks and an aunt and uncle.

Before we left, Mike had told me about telling his co-workers his vacation plans. I think each one of his friends responded with either “Why?” or “You’re crazy.”

Mike and I had started to question if we were crazy, if we would end up regretting the trip after a few days in the car, me in my third trimester and our active kids strapped in car seats. Most people we know spend vacations at the beach or go to Disneyland or on an all-inclusive cruise.

And maybe we are a little crazy. Maybe it’s no longer conventional to pack your kids into the minivan and risk eight hours of bickering in the confines of said minivan…for multiple days straight. Maybe it’s not normal to drive over a thousand miles to see the natural wonders of this world or discover how life might be lived a few states over. Maybe in our fast-paced culture we have ran afraid of boredom and missed the gifts it can give.

Friends, that trip was just what this family needed. I can’t even put into words the joy wrapped up in watching my kids’ faces as they pulled their first geode out of the earth or sat on a pony in the Montana woods or watched Old Faithful blow or spotted a bull moose a few yards from our car or tried to draw the baby buffalos romping through the meadow or awoke to discover snow covering the ground in May. Time slowed down for us, and those slow days and slow moments, it’s like I got handed a magnifying glass to the innerworkings and giftings of my kiddos. I got to see them. Really see them.

I can’t even tell you how refreshing it was to finally feel like there was nothing I needed to catch my husband up on and to just sit in the peaceful quiet watching the scenery roll by. It was a gift to watch the stress unravel off Mike as we drove further away from the demands of his job and law enforcement life. We made new inside jokes, like the ones we’ve carried since our first year of marriage. We laughed till the tears streamed. We dreamed of life in other places (like Montana may have stolen both our hearts), but the important part was that we dreamed new dreams, together.

All four of us (or should I say 5? J) tried things like buffalo, elk, and huckleberry ice cream for the first time. (And I am just saying that if you are ever in Missoula, MT: Big Dipper Ice Cream. Trust me.) We are convinced the Midwest over salts everything, that a Californian should never bother with Mexican food in Idaho, that Montanans might just be the most hospitable people on earth, and that the rudest drivers are not in the San Francisco Bay Area, but Jackson Hole, Wyoming.  

We made memories that I know the kids will still talk about into adulthood… like the time Mom accidentally took them to a crowded Montana bar on a Friday night complete with pool tables, live country music, and more cowboy hats than men because she thought bar meant that there was a bar, not that it couldn’t be a family-friendly restaurant too. Yeah. Nope. It was a bar-bar. (We almost walked right back out, but the owners and the people were so nice that we stayed, sat next right next to a stuffed buffalo, ate buffalo tenderloin and tacos, and got to hear a beautiful rendition of “Red River Valley” that made my country heart soar. We might not have fit in with the scenery, but I’m glad we stayed.)

Sure, there were a few meltdowns. We got asked “How much longer till we get there?” a few too many times for our patience. The kids ignored our request to keep their hands to themselves. Little Brother discovered the thrill of pestering Big Sister till she reacts loudly. This pregnant girl went a few too many hours without food, spent a few too many hours in one day in the car, and hiked one mile too many through rough terrain. All of which may or may not have led to a complete meltdown. (Jed is now overly concerned about whether I am hungry and has since told a few people, “My mom needs to eat right now or she will cry.” Thanks, Son.)

But the gifts. Oh, how they outweigh the struggles.

Deep down in the heart of this girl-woman, there might be an absolute wander-lust that makes things like road trips breathe life into her. Maybe it’s not for everyone. But truly, I think the best gifts that life, motherhood, and marriage have to offer are wrought in the things that make you wonder if you are crazy. The best gifts go to the bold ones, the crazy ones, the ones who take risks, the ones who know it might not all work out like a dream but still believe the story will be worth it. And in the end, the story is always worth it.

It’s easy to live in the excuses of timing and life, the maybe a few years from now when the kids are older kind of stuff. But I just feel like I need to quietly remind you that your family, your marriage, your own life story, they are all worth taking risks over. They are all worth big investment.

What is one big (and maybe slightly crazy) thing you have done that paid off in big rewards for your family?

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers

P.S. Next week, I should have a light-hearted post sharing some of the things that made this road trip awesome as well as some of the things that we’d change next time around...you know, in case you are thinking a crazy road trip sounds like fun too.