The Authentic Mother

As a child I watched her bend her knees and weep into the old chair, time after time, morning upon morning. She usually did it early, before we crawled out of our beds. But I could still hear her. There were always tears, and I worried. I didn't like to hear her cry.
Countless mornings turned into years; her weeping into that chair...pouring out the contents of her heart to The One who stores our tears in bottles. His daily record-keeping of what caused those tears to run down to begin with...those tears from a not-so-perfect woman, who had learned through life, and lessons, and pain, how to daily surrender .

I don't remember how old I was, when I realized how consistently she prayed for me.

I do remember how old I was when I became a mother.

Being a mom has been amazing and facinating, and absolutely the most grueling experience of my life. I like to believe that I've always grasped the enormity of this relationship with the three who are mine, but I've also devoted many years to trying to become THE PERFECT MOTHER, falling flat on my face...yet into His grace.

For too long I played the games of comparison, trying to measure up to that perfect Proverb's Woman, and to the other moms on the block, or in the pews. I gathered what I saw, made judgement about what I didn't see....and swore to be better...much better!

I dressed the children in matching things; curled hair around my finger every Sunday, and prompted them to smile...always smile...so those looking on, would remark at the finery. Scolding them if their actions didn't match the perfect little life I had to have, but failing miserably to manufacture.

Then came the revelation of my futile attempts. The fall was painful, the wounds deep. My heart broken at who I had become. Then the friend who gently said, "Just be authentic...that's what they need."

Authentic? 

I began to examine that word and found out it's meaning:

"Not false or copied; genuine: having the origin supported by unquestionable evidence."
I wept at those words.
Had I died at that moment, what would my children believe my origin to be? What would the unquestionable evidence say about who I was, but more importantly Who I was not living for?

I had been worshipping at the feet of perfectionism...and not at the foot of the cross!

With heart-pounding repentance, I asked for a second chance, and I found redemption.

I do remember how old I was, when I realized that all of those early morning prayers that had been prayed for me, where coming from a flawed woman, who had also become a woman, redeemed.

Her unquestionable evidence had supported her Origin. In her brokeness, at the foot of the Cross, she was living out authentic...real.

The 1000 Moms Project