Raise your hand if you wash your hair at least once a week…
Yeah, me either. It’s cool guys, it’s cool. Other than the fact that it’s just difficult to shower when you’re in the middle of baby land, that postpartum hair loss struggle & regrowth is a REAL ISSUE. Nobody prepared me for the small lion’s mane currently growing around my face like a deranged halo. No one told me how clumps of my hair would fall out every time I brush it or run my hands through it while trying to get all the shampoo out. Please tell me I’m not the only one who sticks the hair to the shower wall to get it off my hand. Like, what else are you supposed to do?! Anyway, as I was going through my weekly shower ritual, I started to reflect & babble about random things to the Lord as my thoughts wandered, as I often do. I’ve been pretty stressed out about several personal things recently. Compared to some of the trials I know other people in my church & community are facing, these “issues” of mine are small. The problem with that outlook is that I tend to allow the small difficulties to build up internally, never sharing my needs. {Classic Enneagram 2 move over here, haha}. But back to the hair on my shower wall. As Jesus and I were talking about some of my recent anxiety triggers, the Holy Spirit brought to mind a Scripture I learned long ago: "Aren't five sparrows sold for two pennies? Yet not one sparrow is forgotten by God. Even the hairs of your head have all been counted. So do not be afraid; you are worth much more than many sparrows!" -Luke 12:6-7, GNT Honestly, standing there peeling tiny hairs off my hands, feeling their annoyance even when I can't see exactly where they are (you know the feeling!), I was struck by the truth tucked into these two small verses. These are words spoken directly from Jesus' mouth, so we know they're important. Isn't that idea wild? Like, there's 7.6 billion people in the world, and God knows each of us so intimately that He keeps track of the number of hairs on our heads. I can't even count how many I've lost in the past five minutes, yet He has been consistently been aware of that number, because He is omniscient, and He cares. Did you catch that? He cares. Even about the "small" things I'm sweating. So, why should I be afraid? Have I forgotten my worth? Do I believe I am more valuable than some birds? Do I trust that God will provide for all of my true needs? (Ps. 34:10, Phil. 4:19) Yeah, I know, all that from some hair clumps on my shower wall. *shrugs* Lord, you are Jehovah-Jireh, my Provider. I confess to you that I've failed to trust that part of your character recently. Forgive me for my unbelief. Thank you for reminding me of who you are, and who I am because of you. I have never lacked for what I truly need. You are faithful! Thank you for your loving-kindness towards me, and for the special attention you give to knowing every part of me; down to the always-changing number of hairs on my head. You amaze me, Father. Help me not to be afraid. Strengthen me with the truth of your promises, that I might exude confidence in you for your glory. I love you. In Jesus' name, Amen.
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From somewhere deep inside my dream I hear it—that sputtering, half cry/half protest I am now so used to hearing. In approximately six minutes, the cries will be at full volume. Slowly, I pull myself through the stages of subconscious to half-consciousness, feeling the heaviness of being ripped out of my REM cycle. These are the times it’s hardest, the tangible weight of sleep pressing me firm against the mattress. A quick glance at my phone informs me it’s 3:39 a.m.
*deep inhale + sigh* Two-ish hours is all it’s been. Immediately I call out to the Father before I just break down. “I know I have absolutely nothing in this moment. Holy Spirit, help me. I need you to move me from this bed. I need you to care for her right now.” Bleary-eyed, yet feeling His strength, it’s enough to get me to her crib down the hallway. I can immediately feel the diaper’s fullness. Whyyyyy. I lay her down to be changed & she begins to protest LOUDLY at the idea of not being held so soon after being picked up. She may as well be a newborn again. Here we are on night four?….five? of this regression. Up three to four times a night, and she wants my body again & again. Daddy can’t help. I silently curse my magic power of producing food for another human just by existing {because honestly that’s some superhero junk right there-God is so cool like that} and sit down with her. 3:51. Whew. I am so depleted. I’m weary. I’m emotional. I’m ticked off at myself for getting my hopes up that tonight would be better because she ate a lot of solid food for dinner and that’s “supposed to help her sleep better” *insert eye roll here* I’m frustrated because I don’t really know if it’s her gums or her growing bones or maybe her belly that hurts, or if she’s having bad dreams. I’m annoyed that I am the one who is always needed at this hour. Two nights ago I snapped at my husband for SNORING because, yeah, that’s rational. And to top off this twisted sundae of feelings, I’m treasuring every moment with her, burning to memory how in the darkness she reaches her tiny, warm hand up to my lips, wanting me to kiss each little finger. It’s our thing. And that’s about the moment I remember: She cries because I’ll come. I have invested so much into this tiny human over the past almost eight months, and because of that, she trusts me. She depends on me. She believes in our connection, clings to it, places her hope in it, casts all her bets on it, because she knows that mommy will come. Through my responsiveness, I am her first example of God's love for her. Woah, that's heavy. I begin to think of our future foster babe, the one we haven’t met yet; but who already takes up residence in my heart. I wonder if he/she feels the same security in the middle of the night. Does he have anyone who will come? Does she have someone she can trust to care for her? And I think of Jesus, the same Jesus I called out to just a few minutes ago. Like Ada crying for me, I cried to my Daddy in heaven, begging Him to hold me as I hold her. Dang. What a parallel love story. She cries because I’ll come, with a reckless dependence on a mother’s love. Through the mess, I see it come full circle — Immanuel, "God with us,” inviting me to seek His face through the darkness with the same fervor and confidence which she seeks mine. It’s hard, but it’s good. And so is He. |
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Ashley Setterlind: Jesus lover, wife, new mama to a baby girl. Archives
October 2018
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