By Sarabeth Stone 
This course of Motherhood is often like a one-man boat in open water. It’s a wind-spun tumult that pushes and pulls and some days threatens to throw you over and under. It’s waters so still like a mirror of glass making you wait and wonder how to get to the shore. It’s a puffing breeze and sail perfectly full as you speed merrily along thinking it’s always this good. It’s ebb and a flow of startlingly easy and beautiful, hard and ugly.
Real Motherhood is nothing like fantasy – as neither are marriage, love nor everything in between. When humans are at play, real life is more complex than Hollywood – or even your own little heart – might have you believe.
Motherhood is constant transition; some days are all sun, while others are rain pouring in and loud storms roughly attempting to throw it all over.
It starts with holding on and out for a precious pink line. Then expanding to fit someone else while you grow uncomfortable as this new version of “you.” It’s your very own being functioning now to support one more life while you try to carry on what already existed.
Then it’s striving through pain and real labor and stretching that you are sure will just break you. Yet instead it all leads to a sudden arrival of new life taking loud, rosy breaths.
It’s sharing your body so someone else thrives. It’s sacrifice of sleep to help one find rest. It’s rocking, and feeding, and shushing, and soothing, and nodding off awkwardly propped in a chair.
It’s surrender and patience and forgiveness and searching for strength in generations of promise that assures you’re enough, you were designed for this, and you can do all as required.
Motherhood is waiting. Waiting for babies to grow. Waiting for sleep. Waiting for more of your husband or we time or me time. It’s wishing time would slow down.
It’s struggles to conceive to challenges to raise and a love deeply rooted. It’s chubby arm hugs and little belly laughs that echo through ages.
It’s you and your buddy running errands, and starting new schools, and kissing boo boos, and healing hurt hearts. It’s teaching and training and leading and holding each tiny hand as long as you can.
It’s trying and failing and emotions rising and falling, questions and answers and far more grand guesses. It’s shouting and crying and “I am so sorry.” It’s imperfect and tender, it’s fatigue and great grace and a good deal of worry.
Motherhood is taking one tack ‘til you suddenly realize you’ve driven a circle, and changing and trying to find your way back. It’s you on your own with no anchor or rudder while “someone up there” seeks to steer you, to love you, to lead you to more than you imagined you’d find.
It’s struggling and fixing and changing and growing and graying and praying.
It’s little arms that grow into strong and lean hearts to hold you when you become frail and more tired and wobbly of knee. It’s the end of an era, looking over her progeny surrounding the bed where she’s resting, reflecting on all that they’ve been.
It’s whispering promises and shushing her worries and assuring the Mother she was always enough. It’s thanking and kissing and hugging and loving the arms that gave them all that she had more often than not. It’s children now hoping and praying and saying all great words of the good they could never hold back.
It’s thankful and memories and strength and “Mom, I’ll love you until our next meeting with Him.
“You are good, you are beautiful, you were humble, you were fun. You were silly, you were stern, you were always right there.
“I will miss you. Just rest, Mom. I’ll be right here. Thank you for it all, Mom. You can go, Mom. We love you.”
It’s a lifetime of memories and trials and fixes and trophies. It’s a woman who goes down in heart histories of loved ones, who lives so generations can flourish beyond her.
It’s always trying and getting up when weary or broken and looking at those who we prayed for at night and trying each day to be better and right and working for futures bright with His light.
It’s more giving than getting and setting up lives with each breath and great will so they’ll carry us on after our time stands still.
by Kimberly Keys 
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by Charissa Bates 
