Her sweaty face pressed firmly against my chest. Milk dripped from the corner of her lips as I slowly rocked her to sleep in an uncomfortable wooden rocking chair. My anxious thoughts were interrupted by the preacher’s voice competing with the static from the old box speaker hanging over the changing table. Teardrops fell from my eyes as I tried to balance a sleeping baby and reach for the volume dial. I nearly dropped the crocheted baby blanket, but her tiny toes clutched a chain of pink. I was like the precious one in my arms, desiring sweet, satisfying milk. My sins were forgiven in the basement of that old country church as they sang the closing hymn. It wasn’t the first time I talked to God, but the first time I called him Father.
Cornfields surrounded me, and I was afraid. All my plans unraveled as God began weaving a work of grace through my tangled mess. I no longer recognized the woman looking at me in the mirror. All I could see was a broken and shattered reflection, revealing my need for something more. It was easy to lose myself in a cattle field as my toes disappeared in ankle-deep mud and when kneading bread dough to barter for fresh eggs or the hemming of garments. I would sing day and night from the hymnal my mother engraved upon my heart in my youth. I discovered that singing throughout my days provided me the freedom to be the person God created me to be.
Life with one baby was hard enough. Life with two brought me to my knees. One baby would sleep under my left arm and the other tucked in the right. Seasoned mothers told me to put them down, but I could never loosen my grip. I listened intently to the old, wise women in the church as they encouraged younger women in their ministry at home. I desired to delight in God’s design, but it came with great sacrifice.
I often envied the contentment and community motherhood brought to others. It was there for me, too, but I couldn’t see it then. Women who hardly knew me knocked on my front door unannounced when I was alone during the day. Strangers befriended me, and their care was relentless. They delivered handpicked flowers, garden vegetables, homemade sourdough and rye, healing herbs, and generous invitations. Sometimes, I could not welcome them because my burden was too great. They would bang on the door, knowing I was at home. Some were so bold to look in the windows. They would repeatedly call out my name. These brave women loved me like Jesus. He was knocking on the doorstep of my heart, calling out my name, but embarrassment over my condition made me shut Him out, too.
I traveled high mountains and steep valleys. I never hiked a day in my life but quickly found myself in braids and a ball cap, climbing rocks and searching for waterfalls. I read stories of great heroes while huddled under the shade of enormous pine trees dripping with sticky sap. I filled bushel baskets with golden apples and baked caramel apple pie. I picked berries and peaches and filled the freezer to enjoy in winter. I canned apple butter, cinnamon apple sauce, and dill pickles. I bottle-fed calves and cuddled farm animals. I walked through overgrown pastures and fields of wildflowers. I made goat milk soap with dried lavender, melted beeswax into candles, and produced frugal household goods. I planted gardens and watched them grow. I did not despise my fortune as an amateur homemaker; I did it all for love.
As I rested my weary head upon my pillow each night, Jesus graciously responded to my tears as soon as He heard my cries. I would recite the sixty-second Psalm until my soul found rest in God alone. The children often stirred in the night hours, and I would whisper scripture lullabies into their ears until daylight. It was in those sleep-deprived moments that I found comfort in my salvation. I was being held, and my Father couldn’t loosen His grip on me either.
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