My love for theology began when I was a mother of two small children. Yes, unimaginable, but so. They were born fourteen months apart, and they were busy, very busy! I cannot seem to remember even one night passing where I did not have to awaken and tend to one or the other until they grew to the ages of four and five. Exhaustion swallowed me up giving rise to the seemingly unending road toward another day filled with diapers, spit up, and endless trips to the doctor for sniffles. (I had walked around church one Sunday with spit up all over my shoulder, and no one ever told me – can you believe that?)
One day, a friend gave me a mothering book to read. As my half-open, watery eyes gazed upon its pages, filled with supposed helpful suggestions, I blankly peered up from the black and white text to discover that I simply could not do what they were suggesting. The authors described grabbing a neighbor to watch my kids if I wanted to go out for a jog, or tackling my husband into quietly attending to the children while I took a nap. My life didn’t work that way! As I read on, my interest dwindled as did my initial excitement of finding answers to my exhaustion.
The picture of my life began to change when my way of thinking changed. I was always a happy mom and wife, but the fervor I once had was hiding somewhere, and I just couldn’t find it. In college I dreamed of being a medical doctor, but here I was, day after day, living with a sink full of dishes, changing diapers, not even being able to enjoy one cup of coffee, and struggling just to read one book. (See the post “The Coffee I Never Drank.”) My first year of marriage was spent in Oxford, England, with all its ideas, intellectualism, and learning opportunities, and now I was in a suburban home in Ohio. (Growing up near New York City, I didn’t even know civilization existed in Ohio!)
Then……..entered a strength born from the weariness. Then……entered the Cross of Christ. (Coming in next post)