I was scrolling through Instagram on the night of Thanksgiving, the only one awake (as usual), coming down from my extrovert-high after all the conversation and merriment of the day, when I came across a post that stopped me in my tracks.
The post contained a picture-perfect image of some European countryside. The author, 41, was declaring how thankful she was for a childless Thanksgiving. Her reasons: being able to do what she wanted, when she wanted, with whom she wanted.
The comment section, as you can imagine, was a mixed bag of affirmation, rage, condescension, defensiveness, name calling, and the like. The nay-sayers had their various reasons for confronting the author. One man claimed she was being irresponsible by not doing her part to populate the planet. Another told her that she was going to die alone. The majority of commenters affirmed her desire for an autonomous, self-centered life, claiming on her behalf the catechisms of our age: “you do you” and “live your best life.”
Obviously, this post made me sad. As a mother of four, I am keenly aware of all the joys this woman is missing. (And I am so tenderly aware that there are so many friends, including sisters in Christ, that have had this choice made for them through infertility or singleness.) I’m sure each of us, mothers and fathers alike, could provide a long list of the delights we’ve experienced through our children, including the growth we’ve experienced as a result of their sanctifying presence in our lives. But this void in her life made me sad, not as a mother, but as a fellow daughter.
I remember as a child feeling like my love for my parents would burst out of my chest. My own littlest one will sometimes dissolve into tears at bedtime because she’s overcome with an affection she cannot contain. Even in college, talking to my daddy hours away, we would end each conversation with an “I love you more” competition. You know how it goes.
“I love you.”
“I love you even more.”
“I love you more than that.”
And so on. My own children will play this game with me, too.
“I love you to the moon”
“I love you to a quadruple billion.”
“Oh yeah, well I love you to INFINITY.”
My daddy and I kept this up for years. It was our sign off every time we talked on the phone or saw each other in person. But when I had my first child, a red-haired baby boy, it changed.
“Bye, Daddy. I love you.”
“I love you more.”
“I know.”
I remember the first time I said that. He took in a breath, paused, and said. “You get it now, don’t you?” “Yup. I get it now.”
Before becoming a parent, I had no category large enough, no box big enough to even imagine the depth to which I had been loved. Yes, I had the deep love of a wonderful husband. I had the love of family, friends, and a wonderful church. But those were all mutual loves and I was limited even in my capacity to receive them. They were transactional. My love for my husband, friends, and siblings was pretty much proportional to the love I received from them. But when I became a mother, like the Grinch, it was like my heart had grown three sizes. And the daily exercise of caring for this helpless child- the painful labor, the sleepless nights, the toddler years, the thousand meals, and now even to the unrelenting emotional labor of the teenage years, have served to only increase my wonder. I’ve been loved this much, and this disproportionately, too.
My wonder does not stop at my earthly father’s love. It has increased exponentially my wonder at the love the Triune God has lavished upon me in calling me His daughter. I had always had an intellectual appreciation for the provision and protection of God as Father. I had a deep gratitude for Christ’s work on the cross on my behalf. But, like with my earthly father, I had deluded myself into thinking the gap between our affections for each other was not so great. I expected that God loved me about as much as I loved Him (which was frankly a scary and sobering thought). Motherhood erased that illusion. I realized I was the object of an affection that I could never comprehend and would never be able to reciprocate. On my worst days, in my worst seasons, this has brought me such comfort. On my hardest days of mothering, I still want nothing more than to draw close to my children, no matter how unlovely they’ve been, simply because they’re mine. And to think that God would give us his only Son for us. That truth used to sound beautiful and wonderful. Now it’s unfathomable. The depth of my need and the height of His love is multiplied because, as a mother, I can imagine no loss greater than that of a child.
Motherhood has been a gift because of the love I’m able to give. It has shaped me, changed me, grown me, and blessed me. But even more life-altering, is the love I am able to receive. Motherhood has increased my capacity, small and broken as it is, to see it.
Lindsey Murphy lives in Birmingham with her husband Andrew and their four children. After a long, lovely season of homeschooling, Lindsey now teaches at a local classical school. She also writes for Story Warren and has been a guest on various blogs, the TAB Talks podcast, and has helped co-author a book of essays on motherhood.