I don’t have a glamorous Hallmark-like story about when I became a mother. It’s not a fairytale by any means. I was heartbroken, hurting, scared, and everything in between. But I fought for my son in more ways than he will ever know.
While a lot of friends were celebrating the legal drinking age, I was 21, drinking copious amounts of coffee, navigating life as a single mom with a newborn.
I’d moved back home and I was working long hours while my mom helped me. I remember the longing in my heart. Sometimes I’d sit on the roof outside my window at night watching cars pass by my house. I’d wonder if they were heading home to their families and what that feeling was like.
I’d look at my newborn and just melt with so much love for him, yet feel an ache I couldn’t quite explain.
Three months after having him, I met my now husband. It took me some time to learn—those hard 9 months of pregnancy and the 3 months after while I was alone with my son—that these hardships were growing me. I had to be emptied fully for God to fill me back up His way and in His time.
My story of motherhood is filled with repentance, redemption, restoration, and reverence in a God who never gave up on me. A story of my husband selflessly adopting my eldest and a reminder of how Jesus selflessly adopted us.
But it kills me when people ask me if my eldest son is my husband’s. I’ve even had people make horrible comments. And as my son gets older he questions his color when he’s drawing and coloring pictures of our family. He will come home from school saying things like, “I colored everyone peach and me and you brown, why are we different colors?”
And I simply explain to him that God is such a creative artist, that His paint palette is endless and we are all unique masterpieces.
But when I look at my children my heart swells with gratitude, because I’m so undeserving of this love. Even when it’s hard, even when I question my mothering, even when I want to scream and hide in the bathroom. This right here is all I’ve ever wanted. I guess my point is you never know someone’s story.
Maybe one day I’ll fully share mine. But be careful in the way you word things to people, we all have a story and they are all beautiful tales of God’s glory no matter how “different” they may appear.