As of today, I’ve been a mother for four years. If you count the birth of the child as the birth of the mother. My own mum counts up the ages of all of her offspring and calculates it out that way. Impressive when she does it; I’m just getting started.
Four years ago, we lived in a little apartment with a handkerchief kitchen, a bathroom, a bedroom and an office, enough space for a table (made out of a door) and a sofa and chair. We felt like kings.
We outgrew that apartment with Baby #2 (or at least we thought we did) and we moved into a townhouse. A full three floors and a garden, and we felt like adults.
Now, we’re living with the in-laws and waiting to move into student digs in the fall. And we feel like children all over again while we are learning to be parents to our own children.
It’s been a messy time.
You laugh because you know. Parenting is messy. Physically messy—from finger painting to poo charts (and if you don’t know what I’m talking about, it’s just been a while since your kids were newborns.) And it’s emotionally and spiritually messy, too. Families can be chaotic, conflicting and confusing. We’ve had the sleepless nights that everyone expects, with teething and croup and good old-fashioned grumpiness. There have been tears all round. There’s been noise. But it’s been a beautiful time, too. And that’s part of the messiness.
A midwife friend of mine described birth as messy—like everything else worthwhile in life. And she’s right.
Messiness isn’t just about the brokenness of the world. It is about real life, with the possibilities that are always there. Gardens are messy—it is dirt and rain that produce flowers. Cooking is messy—Spouse can attest. Art is messy, as is everything else that tries to touch real life. Messiness comes from participation in creation. We do that by digging where we are and becoming open to God-given possibilities for all things. And with God, newness is always a possibility.
I heard a story this week from my mum. An older lady in the congregation suddenly got married. She was hiking in the UK and met a charming, grinning man and now her life has taken a surprising and joyful new direction. That’s messy because now there are decisions to make about how to live and where and all that. Messy and beautiful.
I called this column The Messy Table because I wanted to reflect on my lived reality of Christian parenting. As Christians, we gather around the table, trying to be open with each other in the midst of our lives. Whether the table is for coffee or communion, we gather together in the name of Christ. And the life we live is messy. We acknowledge that we are not running this show. We don’t get to script our lives, and we recognize that we can’t live alone. Together, we are going to face both brokenness and crazy forgiveness, scandals and grace, and love that boggles the mind. The lines aren’t going to be clear a lot of the time. And sometimes the brokenness is going to be the larger part, but sometimes the beauty will win. God calls us to wade into both. That’s the messiness of living by faith.
And it is messy beautiful joy I want to celebrate today with Beangirl’s birthday.
Beangirl was born at home. We were blessed to have strong midwives around us, helping us learn how to work through the stages of labour, giving us both space and support to become parents and bring our baby out into the world. And when Beangirl was born, we swaddled her in a blanket that had wide green stripes, and we thought she looked long and skinny. Just like a bean. She was little and new and ancient, strong and fragile and beautiful and messy. Just like every other baby.
Now, she’s four. She’s tall and loving and graceful and goofy. “See how silly God made me!” she sings and she dances in a wobbly circle. She loves her little brother and her teddy, Emily Bear. She writes her family’s names on the sand at the beach.
She frustrates me when she pretends to be younger than she is, emulating her brother’s attempts to speak. She delights me when she finds a new word she can read. She sings to herself when she thinks she is alone.
My hope for her is that our migrations don’t leave her feeling ungrounded. I hope that she can land on her feet when we find a place to plant them. That she will find good friends with whom she can grow and that, as a family, we can find a church community that will love her and support her as she learns to ask more questions. I want her to hold on to her knowledge of who she is.
Today, she climbed up onto my lap after eating a pile of watermelon slices and stickily told me that she would always be my special girl, even when she was a lady. And she will.
Happy Birthday, Beangirl.
