Once upon a time, before smartphones and social media, a mama breastfeed her baby back to sleep without a platform.
There was no ridicule. There was no applause. Just a mama and her baby.
She would cradle him to her chest, and beside her, he would rest his sweet head. Together they would drift, sweetly unaware of any controversy, devoid of opinion.
Once upon a time, before there was an audience, a mama would take her toddler to the store where he would be told no countless times. The meltdowns were abundant and loud words seemed to echo, but she would handle it as best as she knew how.
There was no ridicule. There was no applause. Just a mama and her toddler.
She would take him home in tears and the blessed hope of assurance that she had done her very best, sweetly unaware of any controversy devoid of opinion.
Once upon a time, that toddler became a child who showed interest in all things athletic. She asked him to choose just one sport at a time, and he played his little heart out at each game.
There was no ridicule. There WAS plenty of applause, but just from a mama for her child.
Nobody instructed her that this was necessary, and nobody would have blamed her if there were no outside activities to speak of at all. They just went with the flow as he moved from one sport to another, sweetly unaware, devoid of opinion.
Once upon a time, the voices of various platforms began to emerge as this young boy transformed into an adolescent.
She found herself wondering about the choices she had made, and she began listening to the words of a thousand faceless strangers.
There was plenty of ridicule. There was little applause. Just an uncertain mama and her beautiful boy.
She began comparing herself to those pretty lives on the screen, and she found that she was wanting. He was growing up in a world that suddenly seemed so frightening. She was full of trepidation, drowning in opinion.
Once upon a time, this adolescent boy became a teenager, and she found he spent more and more of his time with his friends.
She dared not ridicule. She applauded from afar. Just a mama watching her boy gain his autonomy.
She would furiously wander the internet—a virtuous seeking out of the latest research. “How to raise adolescent boys?” was the question. Controversy and endless opinion was the answer.
Once upon a time, her baby boy became a man overnight. She watched as he emerged from all that she had given . . . and she found him to be supremely beautiful.
She had listened far too long to the ridicule, and in her heart, she found nothing but applause for this boy she had raised to be a man.
Still, she found herself weary as she listened to the multitude preach for MORE, and so she filled her time with activities and bettered herself until she had nothing left to give, full of trepidation, drowning in opinion.
Once upon a time, that woman had enough and said, “NO MORE!”
She looked at herself in the mirror and found herself to be supremely tired. So very different than the young mother who so gently rocked that baby boy into the night.
All that she could hear was the ridicule. She refused to entertain any applause. Just a woman and her own reflection.
Still, she picked herself back up and she kept going. She learned to trust herself again, and she began the journey back to who she was, unaware of any controversy, devoid of opinion.
Once upon a time, in a world ruled by smartphones and social media, a woman let her Savior rock her back to sleep.
She was through with the ridicule. She no longer hungered for the applause. Just a woman and her Lord.
And the still small voice now so crystal clear, quieted her heart as she learned to trust again.
And each night He would cradle her to His chest, and sing so sweetly over her as she drifted off to sleep, uninterested in any controversy, devoid of opinion.
Full of Truth.
Sweet sister out there listening to the symphony of a thousand voices hissing, I pray you can hear me well—
Not one of us has the very same story to tell.
It’s just noise and distraction; these frenzied interactions.
There will always be ridicule. Applause is fickle at best. In the end, it will just be you and your Lord—
In the quiet is your rest.
Previously published on the author’s blog