In an effort to lean into the season, I am giving you a replay from last year. I hope you enjoy.

I took my friend to dinner with us the other night. Sometimes I can’t quite handle the space between home and bed time when I am on my own, so I tempt my childless friends to dinner with me and the girls by offering to pay for their meal. On her way out of the door she looked me in the face and said “I hope you have the time to be sad.”

I am in up-state New York with my grandmother grieving like this family does. We touch each other a lot. We pick at each other about dumb things. We insist on being in the same room. We make mildly inappropriate jokes. (My sister suggested to my grandmother that they better use the Bible verses about sexual purity at the memorial service to remind my 89-year-0ld grandmother of her moral responsibilities in her new-found singleness. Later I heard my grandma tell a visitor that if she marries again that he has to be “healthy and wealthy, I’ll tell you that much right now.”) Often our laughter runs right into our tears and our tears run right through our laughter. I keep forgetting to not put on mascara. There really isn’t much point.

I saw a shooting star last night. The stars here are so much brighter without all of the city light pollution I get at home. Jill and my cousin Carrie didn’t see it. Just me. It reminded me of the nights the cousins used to go down to the lake to see the meteor showers my mom had inevitably alerted us to. We used to go down to the beach and then tell my mom she had to go up to the house so we could lay on the picnic tables and have exclusive cousin time.

We would lay on those picnic tables with their bases buried in the sand and look at the sky. Without looking into each others faces somehow it was easier to speak into the darkness, not that we said anything important. We mostly talked about what we had done during the school year. We started a lot of sentences with “do you remember when” and end them with fits of laughter. We would wait for the stars to streak through the sky. But the good parts came in the waiting, between the streaks of glory through the sky we were content to just be with each other, hear each others stories.

Grandpa was an excellent provider and Grandma is well provided for, but she is a little worried about the day in day out of it all. Coming home to an empty house, eating alone. Those things are going to be hard and there isn’t much to do about it. It must be done. Waiting for her life to change, this holding pattern has been hard on her.

In this life I sometimes do see those moments of God’s glory streaking through the sky. I lie on the picnic table and wait and watch and there they are, sometimes dozens at a time, a whole shower. It is in those moments where I am surest of the security of that base in the sand, of the place I have chosen to lay. But lately it has been the in between, the waiting. I need to remember that perhaps the shooting stars are not the point, but the space in between. We talk, we laugh, we speak into the darkness, we hear each others stories and point our face to the sky, knowing it is only a matter of time before the next star streaks across the sky.

This year, in an effort to lean in to the call of the Advent season, to really prepare my heart for the coming of the Lord, I am taking a blogging break. I hope you enjoy my reflections from last year.

I don’t know a lot about Bethlehem. I know what I picture in my head when I sing those pretty songs. I know what the Christmas cards look like. In another corner of my brain I have what I have heard from various Christmas Eve services and advent devotionals. Bethlehem was a dirty town notorious for crime and poverty. It was not the place to birth the baby, not the place we would expect to see a Christ child. But there he was, in the middle of a place no one would expect to see him.

In terms of Atlanta, Bethlehem was likely more Bankhead than Buckhead. Yet that is the neighborhood I most want to avoid, especially at night. Part of this is for my safety, but part of it is because I just don’t want to deal. Selfishly I don’t want to deal with the chaos, the risk, the pain of the situation. I need to be reminded that Bethlehem is where the Christ child chose to show up.

I’ve got some Bethlehem’s in my own life, my own heart. I don’t want to deal with the chaos and pain in some relationships or situations…so I ignore them. I don’t want to deal with the hurt I feel from those places, so I don’t go there. It is fine. Everything is fine.

But I wonder if I am missing the Christ child, just like so many people did who were not going to go to Bethlehem, because they did not want to deal with all of that. I wonder if that isn’t still where the Christ child is….right in the middle of my own personal Bethlehem.

I know that is where I have always found him before.

This year, in an effort to lean in to the call of the Advent season, to really prepare my heart for the coming of the Lord, I am taking a blogging break. I hope you enjoy my reflections from last year.

I bought a Fisher Price nativity this Christmas Season. Juliet has been fascinated with the nativity on the entertainment center and Christian was getting a little tired of holding her up multiple times a day to see “those guys.” I buy almost nothing new for the girls, and even fewer toys, so this was a big deal at our house. When I found it waiting for me on our doorstep in the humble Amazon box, inspiration struck.  I would wait until the girls went to bed, then put the batteries in and set it up just like the adult version, only on the floor where the girls could play with the figures. It would be magical! An early Christmas surprise, the idyllic miracle in Bethlehem.

I woke up the next morning to Priscilla yelling for me from her crib, and when I got downstairs, she had not managed to rouse her sister. I let Juliet sleep. Priscilla and I played on the couch and waited for Juliet to wake up. When I heard Juliet having a conversation between her two teddy bears, I slipped in to get her. “I have a surprise for you!” I told her. “We got a new toy!”

Juliet and I walked into the living room anticipating her surprise to see Priscilla in all of her glory. She was standing in the middle of the stable, the fence posts I snapped carefully on last night, snapped off. One in each hand. The wise men were slew all over the living room, and the angel that had once been stuck to the top of the scene was nowhere to be seen. A Godzilla sized toddler had taken over the Christmas story. She turned her head toward her sister and me, “Raaaawr!”

I have about a million things running through my head right now. I am flying out at 10 am tomorrow for my Grandfather’s funeral, and I get back three days before we leave again for Christmas. I don’t have the ornaments on the tree, the Christmas shopping done, the wrapping finished. I don’t even have the ingredients in the house for the baking I hoped to get done. Good luck getting the presents I have half wrapped out before we leave. If I start thinking about packing tonight for myself and then coming home to do it for my family I just freeze.

There is a lot of chaos around these parts. What will happen next? How will I manage? When does this train slow down? How long is this tunnel, and how close is the next one? Is there enough time for me to see the light of day?

I thought I had everything set up this December like the perfect Fisher Price nativity, complete with a singing manger and an angel on top. I turned around and there was this toddler gleefully running through my plans, pieces of the picture in each fist. Raaawr!

With hope, joy and love I think of the presence  of something. With peace, I think of the absence of things. The absence of things gone awry, the absence of screaming and even any noise too loud, the absence of chaos. Peace lies in silence, in holiness, in a place where all is calm. And that isn’t my house anytime soon. I’ve never really been great at the whole quiet thing and my two loud children are a testament to that.

Does this mean I just have to wait on that piece of the promise God gives us? Is this candle for a time when the Fisher Price nativity is no longer a part of the requisite holiday decor? When these questions flood my mind I am reminded of Mary, in Bethlehem, having just given birth in a freaking stable….for God’s sake.

In her I am reminded that the chaos can be where the peace shows up. When the plans get deconstructed and the kids are too loud, when the things we thought we knew for sure crumble to dust in our hands, when the raging toddler of worry comes stomping into my head and tells me that I am not good enough unless the now impossible plans get miraculously finished, I am reminded of the chaos that Mary was thrown into. An unexpected pregnancy, a mandate to travel for miles, a less than ideal birth suite.

The chaos never really ended for her. A trip to Egypt, a return home later than usual, an oldest son rejected from his home town with rumors spreading that he was a crazy man, only to see him die an excruciating death on the cross. I’ve never fully considered the burden that Mary bore after those initial 9 months.

And yet she sits at the very beginning with the words of peace on her lips, Lord, let it be.

I am learning to pray that peaceful prayer, the one Mary answered her angel with. If I have to pack, let it be. If things do not go according to plan, let it be. When I am tired and worn and the kids are screaming for one more round of Jingle Bells, let it be.

I am learning to pray it in the hard places to, if this thing comes to nothing, let it be. If what you want for me is not what I thought, let it be. If I am mourning all through the Christmas break, and you sometimes take the things I love most, let it be.

May the Peace of Christ be with  you. Especially in the midst of the chaos.

This year, in an effort to lean in to the call of the Advent season, to really prepare my heart for the coming of the Lord, I am taking a blogging break. I hope you enjoy my reflections from last year.

I was in latent labor with my youngest for almost three weeks. I went into the hospital over labor day weekend because I felt like I was in labor. They sent me home, but it scared me enough that I decided to stop going to work an hour from my home and midwives lest I be that girl who gives birth on the side of highway 400. Besides, this baby was coming any second. My baby came on her due date three weeks later, September 20th, only because I went into the hospital still contracting, but not seriously, and refused to leave until my midwife broke my water against her better professional judgement. Thankfully I did not blog through all of this. My Facebook posts from that time are pathetic enough.

There is this thing that people say to you, when you are hugely pregnant and completely miserable. They smile at you and say, “well, no one stays pregnant forever!” Which, I suppose is true, but it still makes you want to smack them. How, do they know you aren’t going to be the first? But of course, you aren’t and then you have this hilarious one year old toddling around and you laugh at the whole thing. It becomes a one-up story for the times you are at parties with other moms,” oh yeah, I was in labor with that one for three weeks!” Hilarious! You forget how hard that waiting was, just how much work it is to wait for something you are completely sure of.

Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine! Oh, what a foretaste of glory divine!

We lost my grandfather this last Tuesday. My sisters and I will be singing “Blessed Assurance” at his memorial service this coming Saturday. We are mourning the loss, but my family has a peace about it that can only be described as supernatural. Death has a way of bringing you face to face with your beliefs.

Do I really believe this? Do I really believe that the God of the universe came down as a baby to give to the world the gift of eternal salvation just 33 years later by his death on a cross and resurrection from the grave? Do I really believe that my grandfather’s belief in this story, my belief in this story, ensures that I will see him again?

Turns out, I do.

Angels, descending, bring from above, Echoes of mercy, whispers of love.

I do, and I believe that the universe has been echoing this story of mercy for as long as it has existed, from the birth of babies made the standard way, to the northern lights.  I have been hearing these echoes and whispers this week as I hold back the grief until I can get out of my classroom and with my extended family.

Watching and waiting, looking above, Filled with His goodness, lost in His love.

It is a hard reminder that we live in a fallen world, death. But even as I tell the students who have caught me crying that it is sad, but happened the best way possible I can feel the twinge in my spirit. This was not the original plan. And I hear the echo, you will get to see him again. Not just him but my grandmother on my mom’s side we called Grammy, my great grandmothers I only have the faintest memories of, my cousin Rachel. We will be together one day.

We are 38 weeks pregnant with hope.

So we wait. Watching and waiting, our postures spell out the hope that we have. We look above, knowing that there is something more. It is a posture I have seen in the bodies of the people who have lost the most. They also have the most to hope for.

Lately, this waiting feels like work. I often think of hope as a light and fluffy word, but there is a deep weight to the truth of its promise. There is a work of a heavy burden getting ready to push its way into this world. It is hard, it is slow, it is painful. But this world is not forever, no one stays here forever, which is as beautiful a sentiment as it is a terrible one.

Sometimes hope is delightful, but often it is hard, and painful, waiting for something you are completely sure of. But then, it is here, it is beautiful and wonderful and perfect, this thing that you hoped for was more than you imagined and the waiting fades into a distant memory.

This year, in an effort to lean in to the call of the Advent season, to really prepare my heart for the coming of the Lord, I am taking a blogging break. I hope you enjoy my reflections from last year.

This December has been unreasonably unseasonably warm. I was sitting on the porch discussing my grandfather, the life he led, the ways we will miss him, with my sister when dusk came. I was surprised it was getting so dark so fast. The weather tells me it is early September. The sunset has other plans. I went inside a little disoriented and looked at the clock on the microwave. Surely I missed bed time…nope, just that time of year. Simply not enough light in the day.

When the term “modern-day prophet” crept into my thoughts so did the sounds of the street-preachers I have become familiar with. First there was the guy my dad was friends with. Brother Richard used to pray for healing over the phone if he called the house and we answered, sick from school. I don’t remember meeting him, but I do remember his voice, soft and rich in my ear. My dad used to say you could see the remnants of the glory of the Lord on his head.

The street-preacher I have the strongest memories of is Pastor Neal. He used to stand outside the theatre department and hurl fire and brimstone at the homosexuals and the fornicators just trying to buy a ticket to the university’s next show.  I went to his church once, “The Revolution,” where he preached a beautiful sermon filled with the grace and love of our God. I wonder now, why he saved that message for those who already had it, and hurled the condemnation at those who had yet to experience the grace.

The darkness creeps up so quickly these days. It is enough to disorient me, the darkness of this world. But the Prophet’s job is to shout into the darkness, light a candle in the abyss of the night, promise that dawn is coming, and point to the light that is already breaking in. It is hard and lonely in this wilderness, and sometimes I need to be reminded that what I proclaim matters.

If I pray every Sunday “on earth as it is in heaven” if I believe that God has more for this world than what we’ve already got, then I am a prophet of hope. As the advent season continues and I lean into the waiting, I don’t want to wait silently in the dark. I want to point to the dawn, the promise of light to come.

This year, in an effort to lean in to the call of the Advent season, to really prepare my heart for the coming of the Lord, I am taking a blogging break. I hope you enjoy my reflections from last year.

I have a lottery ticket in my top desk drawer at work. I bought it a couple of weeks ago when the power ball was at a record high. I don’t know why I keep it, but I have not yet been able to throw it out. I feel like it symbolizes something. Or maybe I just keep hoping that I read the numbers wrong, or there will be an announcement about a consolation prize. I know that this is silly, but I can’t quite bring myself to throw out that ticket. It is worthless and empty, the kind of hope the world tells us is available. Maybe, what if…, someone has to win, why not me? Ending in not you, maybe not, someone did win but it sure wasn’t you. The hope the world sells seems to leave one or two with way too much, and the rest of us with worthless slips of paper.

Last night, after the girls went to bed I re-lit the first advent candle and read the guide I had been given by my church. I sat in my dining room, with one white candle lit (the only ones the Kroger had) and prayed through the guide. I sang the suggested song, and tears ran down my face.

“Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel, shall come to you oh Israel”

Last Sunday Jill came over to borrow some paintbrushes and told me that my grandfather had been rushed to the emergency room. This Sunday my dad called to let me know that they had made the decision to stop restorative care. Every time the Peanut sees me crying she climbs into my lap.” You sad mommy?” She asks, “You sad?” I tell her I am and she pats my back. “Is okay mommy, daddy come and give you hugs.”

Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel, shall come to you oh Israel.”

Emmanuel, God with us. This is not an empty hope. It is not a ticket that some people win from and most people throw away. Even in my dining room, with the wrong color candles and my Grandfather slipping away on the other side of the country, I can rejoice. Emmanuel shall come to me, He shall come to my family. It is a certainty. There is hope eternal. God is with us. Hallelujah.

Dear December,

There is so much about you that I love. I love pulling out the Christmas decorations. I love the music. Oh my word do I love the advent candles. I love the movies. I even love the excitement that builds at school and the three half days of exams at the end. The over-all feeling of WE’RE ALMOST DONE that we practically go mad on, teachers and students alike.

I am one of the lucky ones. For the most part, you’ve been good to me December. I don’t have any terrible memories or heart breaking disappointments. We generally get along.

But December, as you approach, I am noticing whispers of the little friend you so often bring, so let me be frank December, while I am excited you are coming to see me,

Your scarcity isn’t welcome here.

I have found the word to name the thing that whispers in the dark to me you are not enough. It’s name is scarcity, and it is not welcome here. I will no longer be allowing the lie that the present I lovingly picked out for someone is not enough. I will not be replacing that lie with the one that so quickly comes after that I spent too much money, or too little.

These presents are tokens of relationships, the do not define them.

I am choosing to believe this holiday season, that my best is good enough for the ones I love.

I will not let the lie of scarcity of memories make me feel guilty about not doing all the things all the time. I will instead choose to believe that a night in with mom and dad and some hot chocolate and cookies is not just good enough, but perfect. Even if the cookies are just the red Oreos.

I will not spin my family into a holiday frenzy for the perfect picture, the perfect outfits, the perfect dinner, the perfect moment. Those things aren’t real. They do not in fact exist. Happy kids and good enough pictures are in fact pictures. After all, my favorite pictures from last year are the truly imperfect ones. There are lots of kinds of perfect pictures. The lie of scarcity isn’t welcome here.

We will be decorating the house on Monday because we want to, and it is fun, and not because we are supposed to, or we are bad parents for not having the tree up. If only the bottom third of the tree gets ornaments because the girls want to hang every last one I will praise the girls for their creativity. I will tell them the tree looks beautiful, perfect even. And I will mean it.

There is enough. There is enough time, there is enough gifts, there is enough to go around. I am armed my grandmother’s cookie and candy recipes, and the ability to make pie with bourbon in it and vodka that tastes like candy canes. I will beat back the lie that my homemade efforts are not good enough with a swig of spiked hot chocolate and a set of beaters turned to full blast.

And December, I hope this season is as sugar-coated my children’s dreams. But you can tell your friend scarcity I will not be baking out of a sense of guilt or fear of someone thinking my efforts are pathetic.

Tell your friend scarcity I will be baking the way I will be doing everything else this season. As a way to connect to the abundance of love from the christmas’ of my youth. As a way to pour love out to my neighbors and friends. For the pure joy of it.

I will not let your stupid friend scarcity rob me of the beautiful truth of this season, that Jesus came to give humanity the ultimate gift, an eternal relationship with an all-loving God. In him I am enough.

So December, I am looking forward to you.

All your beauty and whimsy, your reflection and rest. I love your anticipation and your laughter, your hope, peace, joy and love. But the scarcity that so often comes with you? Sorry.

That lie can go straight to hell where it came from.

Jesus came down to earth as a baby, as a testament to God’s abundant love. I will love abundantly this season. I will give grace abundantly.

That love and grace is so abundant I can extend it even to myself.

So here’s to you December. I can say honestly, without your little friend, I look forward to this beautiful time.

Much Love,

Abby

There has been some talk lately, from people with much farther reaches than I, from people with much larger platforms. They have had enough. They are over it. It is far past time that the church recognizes their women as fully gifted, as fully called. There has been talk of leaving, of refusing to go to churches, or conferences, or publishers who affirm our complimentarian counter parts.

I am a southern baptist feminist. I understand the frustration. Believe me I do. I know the pain of being passed over with a “we’ll pray about it” when you finally have the courage to call yourself called. I know why you would want to walk away. Believe me I understand.

But I can’t be a part of this schism. I won’t be a part of this break.

I will always break bread with my sister.

Of course I mean my sisters in christ, of my fellow believers, of the ones adopted by the same eternal dad as me.

But also, I mean my sister. My sister sister. The one who shared a bathroom with me my entire life. The one who has the same eyes as me. We look so much alike our high school band director has to ask which one we are when we come back to visit.

That sister, my sister sister, I will always break bread with her.

My sister who texts me when I spoke truth on my blog, the one who challenges me in the comments, the one who shipped all her maternity clothes to me, and the tiny pink onesies when we found out it was another girl.

My sister-sister who happens to have different views about women and calling. Who was raised in the same house and the same church, who deeply loves the same God that I do.

I will always break bread with my sister.

It isn’t just something the Lord has called us to. It is an honor. It is a joy.

Maybe you have never been called, called. You’ve never been singled out and spoken to in a way that made us know: “She is called to this.” 

You know and love the still small voice. You are familiar with the intimate rise in the rhythm of your chest, one that is only between the spirit and you. But sometimes you long for a voice that is connected to a person (and maybe a Twitter account). Is that so wrong?

Maybe the only thing you have ever been told you are called to is motherhood. That wasn’t by name You are called to motherhood. That was ladies you are called to motherhood. It isn’t the same thing. It isn’t even close.

Called. It is the Jesus trump card.It is easy to call yourself called when someone else has already given you that title, laid hands and the mantle of called on your shoulders.

But what if they haven’t? Are you any less called? Are you not called if they have never had you stand, never laid their hands on your head or anointed you with oil?

Come closer love. Closer. Let me whisper this into your ear. You are called. Has it sunk into your heart yet. You. Are. Called. Now let me stand you up and square your shoulders. Raise your chin. Let me place the mantle on you in front of your proud parents and the gawking nay-sayers: this one, She is CALLED.

Now stop worrying about what they have to say. They don’t get to decide. Let me slow that down for you. Lean in close. They don’t get to decide. The pastors, the figure heads, the blogosphere gatekeepers, they don’t get to decide whether or not you are called.

Being called is between you and the caller. If he has called you, you are called.

Now let me give you a heads up, about this calling thing. There is enough. There is enough. The world will tell you there is only so much calling to go around, that if someone else is called, then perhaps you aren’t. This is a lie. There is no scarcity of calling or called. There is enough.

You are CALLED. And now, you have been called, called. So go on with your work sister-friend. You have been called to it.

Last week I wrote an encouraging note to my stay at home mom friends. I have a bunch and I could not be more impressed with them. I got a surprising number of notes or emails. from women I know personally thanking them. I think there is something really amazing about someone not in your shoes, saying your shoes look great on you. Which is why I was so touched by this piece sent to me by a stay at home mom.

It’s still not in vogue to be a working mother in today’s contemporary church. Take this situation: in a womens’ bible study in Chicago we were studying a series on motherhood. One women in the night group left the class crying, and as far as I know, never came back. It was hard to stomach the not-so subtle implications in our series that a womans’ place was at home ‘supporting her family.’ 

As a young 25-year old woman myself, I have internalized the culture war that haunts young mothers on a daily basis. On one hand, 41% of women are working full-time outside of the home (according to Gallup Daily tracking data from August 2012) many times out of necessity. 

On the other hand there is an entire counter-culture, yet distinctly “christian culture”, that favors the stay at home mom. While you might not hear it preached from the pulpit, there is a tone that pervades the church. It rears its head when motherhood becomes a subject. A search for “working christian moms” on Google yields many observations of the “risks” of outside-the-home employment. This Focus on the Family article warns: 

“The issue, then, is not whether a woman should choose a career and be a mother, too. Of course she has that right, and it is nobody’s business but hers and her husband’s. I would simply plead that you not allow your family to get sucked into that black hole of exhaustion. However you choose to divide the responsibilities of working and family management, reserve some time and energy for yourselves–and for each other. Your children deserve the best that you can give them, too.” (http://drjamesdobson.org/Solid-Answers/Answers?a=dc453deb-cab4-43f3-81ab-c3e0b9965987) 

The language in this article not only adds to the guilt that all moms already experience on a daily basis, but “Of course she has that right” is a bold statement, considering that many Christians equate the word “right” with the secular connotation of opting for a “selfish choice” over “personal sacrifice”. “Your children deserve the best that you can give them, too.” The tone in this sentence conveys womens’ culpability in choosing the best for their children. After all, “the best” could certainly not be working full-time outside of the home—which should be seen as a kind of “last resort”.

 The Christian working mothers I know are giving their children the very best in terms of both securing financial resources like clothing , as well as washing that same laundry at 10 o’clock at night when their family is asleep. There seems to be a pervasive sentiment in the Christian culture that working is the lesser choice—an option that might result in you “not giving your kids what they deserve.” 

Such a harsh sentiment certainly isn’t lost on single mothers in the church and others who don’t have the resources to hold up to this “ideal.” Not only is it ostracizing, but this catering to stay-at-home-mothers results in a diarama of church activities and a social scene that propels a working mom into the role of “outsider”. 

Even more subtle, but equally debilitating, is the message that women of my age hear from the generations who assume that a marriage should hold strict roles, particularly post-babies. After all, it is very easy to find references in the Bible to womens’ service at home—as well as terminology like the “sacrifice of staying at home” that is epitomized as a Christian woman’s means of spiritual fulfillment. Upon mentioning to one older woman I know that I was worried about our finances and questioning a return to the workforce, she immediately replied: “that’s your husbands job to worry about the money. You let him do that.”

 While partially reassured by this answer, it also felt a little surreal. After all, my husband and I had always worked as a team. As soon as we had gotten married, we organized our lives in close tandem with one another. Our finances? We pooled our money and made decisions on the spur of the moment. I had felt equally responsible for our finances until I was suddenly thrown into a weird, strange new world where I became the beneficiary, and my husband the sole provider. 

As a post-college married millenial, I never questioned that my job would hold equal value to my husbands. Until the advent of a surprise pregnancy, I had grown up feeling quite entitled, as a woman, to any profession or job held by a man. And then my world flipped 180 degrees. Suddenly I was attending womens’ bible studies, receiving boxes of baby clothes , and soon in-charge of my new baby 24 hours a day and 7 days a week. In the church, no one even mentioned going back to work. Outside of the church, the first question I would receive upon meeting someone was: where do you work? The stark contrast between my little evangelical world and the secular one was bizarre, at best. 

And that’s not to say that a working mother doesn’t encounter certain “challenges” like the rest of the Focus on the Family article addresses. I have a lot of respect for Focus on the Family and how they strive to help families navigate the secular world. However, the idea that these challenges are the sole responsibility of the woman to battle against—as if she is the arbiter of work-life balance, strikes me as disingenuous. My husband and I work out these challenges together, again, as I work part-time doing contract work while my two kids under two nap—and then again, if I work at night. I can never shake the pervasive feeling though, that, like the Focus on the Family article implies, it is my responsibility within the church to make sure that my children are well-adjusted and that my constant presence is the best barometer for their well-being. 

Biblically, if there is any basis for placing stay at home moms on a pedestal, I have yet to come across it. As far as I can tell, the Bible places a greater emphasis on the strength of womens’ faith in the face of all circumstances—take the geneaology of Jesus in Matthew: Tamar, Rahab, Ruth, Uriah’s wife (Bathsheba) , and Mary, all women of various stations (3 widows and 2 Gentiles) with various economic situations, but each living out a life of faith that involved the raising of children in the whole gamut of life circumstances. 

I have to believe that it is not “what we do” that makes us who we are as mothers, but how we live according to our faith in a greater God, and this applies to both stay at home moms and those who must—or choose–to work.

 Briana Meade is a millennial mom with two kids who writes at brianameade.com about faith, millenials, and motherhood with all the self-doubt, confusion, and grace that results from the intersection of these three topics.