“A Long Obedience in the Same Direction” (Eugene Peterson) aptly describes the journey of motherhood. When our sixth child came along, I figured I more or less had the mothering thing down. Five children breastfed, potty trained, taught to read and write, do a cartwheel, learn(ing) to drive. All the discipleship in between. Our joy at welcoming a sixth child was fearless and trusting.

As she grew, we navigated many unexpected events, which culminated in a trifecta of autism, epilepsy, and adhd diagnosis. I spent several years denying these diagnosis, but as the slow fog of reality settled in, I experienced something I didn’t expect: grief. Grieving a normal pattern of development. Grieving the unwanted title of a special needs mom. Realizing that instead of looking forward to more opportunities to expand our territory, I would be doubling down on routines and staying home to avoid difficult situations and transitions. Instead of reaching out to build community, I stepped back to study and manage my child. The phrase “special needs” gets tossed around limply, and I confess to often dismissing it as it wasn’t even on my radar. 

Saying yes to the challenge of a child with special needs is like putting on a spacesuit and learning to walk with the extra weight, bulk, and space you take up. Dealing with stares and heads shaking in disapproval as you bump into others and take up more than your share of room in the aisle of the grocery store. Fending off misplaced judgment when your child misreads social cues and standards. That space suit is impossible to camouflage. It’s hard to breathe inside, and feels cumbersome and uncomfortable. There’s nowhere to going to fit in or look like the others. 

Grief is not reserved only for death. Loss of every kind accompanies grief. I wish someone would have told me about the grief associated with an autism diagnosis. One day my 11 year old asked me when her sister would get better. The answer to this question released a level of understanding: one don’t “get better” from autism. The shock, denial, anger, fear, shame, guilt, loneliness, isolation, and depression are stoic landmarks curating another type of “yes” to motherhood. 

Thank God for hope. A belief that even though difficulties may continue, it will get better. Saying yes to raising a special needs child is full of new relationships- people who see the struggle with soft eyes. Saying yes means new strengths- skills, compassion, worldview, and grace. It means new patterns- staying regulated by navigating the waves of stress and crisis and quickly coming back to a baseline of joy and peace. Saying yes means affirmation- that God has a purpose, calling, love, and grace for this new mission.

Motherhood is simply loving obedience, taking part in a sacred and rewarding journey. Jesus stated clearly.. “If anyone would come after me, he must deny himself, take up his cross, and follow me.” Matthew 16:24. He also said to first sit down and estimate the cost of following Christ.

It costs us everything. 

That “everything” is so very personal, and so wrapped up in a loving relationship with Christ, that it becomes a joyful fulfillment of faith and redemption. The reward is rich. 

What I gather from saying yes to the challenge of motherhood is this. 

Faith has flesh. 

It’s visible. 

It writes a story. 

Faith creates a future. 

Obedience is costly. 

Yet it is better than sacrifice. 

Obedience produces lasting work. 

It will be tested and revealed for what it is. 

Motherhood is a moment by moment yes. 

It’s building your house with wisdom, hewing out precious pillars and costly stones. 

If you are dealing with a loss in motherhood, I encourage you to take time to recognize your feelings and process them with a seasoned and wise mentor or therapist. As you become aware and able to identify your season of life, you’ll be able to find the support and community you need to walk through it and access the grace that’s available for you. A helpful journaling exercise is to make a list of all the primary losses you’re experiencing, and then the related secondary losses. Often you’ll see that the secondary losses that might be invisible are more significant than the initial primary loss. Life will look different, but it is still good. If you resonate with this, hit reply-  I’d love to hear from you.