I called to the Lord from my narrow prison and He answered me in the freedom of space.
—Victor E. Frankl, Man’s Search for Meaning
Earl Grey sits to my left, laptop to my front. Deep breath. And another. My five-year-old tugs unremittingly at my pant leg to zip her purple princess dress. I zip her purple princess dress. Poor sleep lately feels eerily similar to high-school days, when we snuck into the liquor cabinet, got drunk, did foolish things, and felt like death in the morning. My six-year-old coughs a raspy cough from the kitchen, the type that doesn’t scare you when it’s your own, but petrifies you when it’s your son’s, because a) the usual answer these days—COVID…and b) you’re responsible. No one ever mentioned these topics in premarital counseling (and I’ve never heard of pre-kid counseling).
How can I be pouring my days into three stunningly alive and real human gems, yet at times feel so deadened?
Anxiety has felt like a louder companion than Jesus lately, which I suspect plays into the deadness. My soul was packed this afternoon with faces and gossip and interactions and relationships, yet I was alone in our house the entire time. We’re living in a bizarre era, with bounties of images, and ideas, and stimulation, and quasi-connections, and false intimacy…dizzying amounts of true and false and maybe information, all right here on our screen.
Last week I turned off my phone and computer. I try to do this seasonally, intentionally creating space—to remember and acknowledge and dream. It was a meaningful fast, but instead of its usual reviving effect, it revealed deeper depravity. Deeper grief, like a depleted balloon, depressed of air, chopped of capacities and familiarities of what it means to rise. I miss undisturbed space. Undivided direction. Literally as I write this sentence, a little darling is beginning to wake and I grieve another train of thought gone.
Summers ago, I’d just finished-up my first year in seminary. It had been a long year, and in an entirely different context (mateless and childless), my soul felt similarly crammed and depleted. So I boarded a plane for a remote city in Africa to hold orphaned babies for a few months. These young ones taught me about weakness and reverence, grief and redemption, breathing and true life. “Health,” I heard a psychology professor say during that season, is “stewarding a continual state of grief.” In other words, stewarding awareness of a broken world in search of redemption. On the one hand, I treasure motherhood and wouldn’t trade it for the world, while on the other, I’m missing what once was. Adoring while grieving, beginning while ending, becoming while letting go.
A friend recently encouraged me to do something “lasting” each day, like painting, or quilting (I’d have to learn how first), or writing a letter. And then the wrapper of my lemon Luna bar today read, “Do something for your future self.” Minus any theological implication, maybe the messages are the same. Given that mopped floors get sticky again, meals get eaten, and clean diapers will soon be soiled, the idea is to document our days somehow…record our stories with something of permanence, reminding us we’re not just spinning our wheels, but thoughtfully wrapped-up in the building of a lasting City—an eternal beauty.
In Bible theory, at least, “children are a gift from the Lord.” But there’s an easily-swallowable pill passed around translating this as: “raising children should always feel happy and blessed.” (Ps. 127:3-5) Maybe children are a gift from the Lord, not because they always make life chipper, but because they’re a thoughtful and ongoing means of drawing us nearer to the Lord, of looking more like him.
Sometimes I envision what it might have been like for Adam and Eve to walk with God. Their stroll feels life-giving, consistently caught off guard by striking features gazing back at them. They seem connected, genuinely interested, and delighted by one another’s image. I crave that notice of my Maker, and the striking features of his face. I crave that true connection, as I swipe a soiled bottom, or tarry in my tasks this afternoon. I crave notice of his beaming smile, as I reach for my tea and take another deep breath.
Abbie (Smith) Sprunger is the author of multiple books, including her latest (and debut) children’s title: What Is Beautiful? (Parent Cue, 2020). Abbie resides with her husband, kids, chickens and dog at Wesley Gardens Retreat in Savannah. See glimpses at @wesleygardenslife.