Mothering with my hands

As I considered what to write this month, one thought came to rest in my mind.

I didn’t realize mothering is so physical.

That’s a strange thing to say, I know, considering I went through nine months of pregnancy and hours of painful labor to bring my little Anika into the world. But now I think I know why God gave her to me now.

For years I’ve been a writer. I worked with words every day, even if only inside my head. Now suddenly I have this bundle of humanity to carry and feed and bathe, and almost everything I do for her involves my hands and my body. She can’t read my stories or blog posts. She doesn’t care about my creativity or desire to reach readers with words. She wants to feel my arms around her, my warmth against her.

I love it. It feels like rebirth, birthing a child and caring for her through fussy nights and messy diapers. It reminds me of Jesus’ attention to the physical, how He healed with touch and mud and kind glances. It reminds me of how God cares for me like a newborn, except He nows exactly what each cry from my heart means. It fills me with awe that He designed families and parenting to show us more of Himself.

I’ll always be a writer, unless God tells me to stop. But for the rest of my life, and these next years especially, I’ll be a mother who loves with hands and arms and a soothing voice. And when I’m tempted to disappear completely into a world of words and storymaking, may my child remind me that I must also love those I can touch.

Have you ever begun a new phase of life that shows you truth in new ways?