Mother of the Year? No Thanks

And what do you benefit if you gain the whole world but lose your own soul? Is anything worth more than you soul? 

--Matthew 16:26

If you've read my blog for any length of time you're aware that I struggled through a time of infertility before being blessed with my precious son, Dayton. And I feel that since I begged and pleaded and wept innumerable tears for this child that I should be the absolute best mother that I can be. Of course, there are countless resources and influences competing for my attention in the instruction of how to achieve this goal. Everything from newsletters filling my inbox, to magazines crowding my end table, to Pinterest and Facebook filling up multiple tabs on my browser. And of course, the good ol' fashioned advice from friends, family, acquaintances, and people I've never met before in my life. Oh, and not to leave out pediatricians, nurses, and other professionals of varying backgrounds. It's an information overload and it results in immense pressure. Especially for someone hardwired for perfection.

You see, I can't look at a list of the 25 best activities/habits/learning concepts to do with your toddler and choose just one or two to start with. I have to try the whole 25 because that's the best way, the perfect way, the 'mom of the year' way. But since that's impossible, I end up doing none of them and feeling like 'crummy mom of the year' instead. I can't possibly use all of the advice I'm given, I can't possibly live up to the standard of every best practice, I can't possibly do all of the ideas of Pinterest. But the perfectionist in me says that I fail if I don't and that has left me frozen in inaction.

Truth be told, I've been drowning under all this pressure---mostly imposed upon by my own self, I willingly admit. Drowning, and yet dying of thirst. You know, water, water everywhere, but not a drop to drink! I get that. I totally get that.

But this weekend I was given an opportunity to wade knee deep in the Living Water. O, how it watered this parched and weary soul.

Twenty-four of us from my church convoyed over to Cedar Point for Point Fest, their annual Christian music festival. I debated for a couple of weeks whether or not to go--the money & leaving my son ALL.DAY. being two main reasons holding me back (it's hard to spend money on yourself after having a child--it just is!). But as this dry feeling began eroding more and more of my joy, my resolve, my drive, my sanity it became clear that I needed this badly. I didn't know what God would give me but He always shows up when I go looking. Always. And so I prayed for something, anything, that He wanted to give me, I said I'd take it.

Four bands, each giving a different message, each one profound, powerful, and of God. But the one that hit me the deepest, the one I'm holding on to and declaring for my truth from the Almighty Himself, came from Toby Mac at the end of the night. In a song I've had on my iPod for years and have listened to many times but that night I heard it with fresh ears. It struck me like a bolt of lightning, the floodgates of heaven opened in my soul and the water came rushing in. It'd be trickling through all day, soaking in slow and steady, but in this moment, I was drenched in the Living Water.

'I don't wanna gain the whole world, and lose my soul'. 

I don't want to be mother of the year 

and lose every semblance of grace in the process. 

I don't want to spend time reading about mothering while ignoring the one who needs mothered. I don't want to waste time talking about mothering while the one who needs mothered is trying to get my attention. I don't want to be supermom, that mom, a Pinterest mom, and end up with a child that had 'perfection' but no modeling of grace, joy, and redemption. I don't want to be the best mom anymore, I want to be the mom who does what's best for my family.

You see, I've been striving after the wrong things. I've been chasing someone else's standard, even chasing my standard is wrong. It's God's standard that matters. God's standard is grace, but I've been living in un-grace. No grace for myself, no grace for the ones around me. God's standard is love but it's awfully hard to love when you're living in un-grace. God's standard is joy, praise, gratitude, but un-grace will suck that out of a life at warp speed. Un-grace is the offspring of perfectionism bred with disappointment.

But as a redeemed child of God and a divinely appointed mother of my son, I can live in grace. I can model forgiveness, mercy, and compassion. I can praise and worship with my heart, my attitude, my words, and my song. I can show Dayton that it's okay to be imperfect, to mess up, to struggle (because I don't think for a moment the struggle is over just because I had an a-ha moment), because God is bigger than our biggest messes and His grace never runs out. I want to show Dayton with my life, not just teach him with my words, that gaining the whole world is worth absolutely nothing, if you lose your soul in the process.

If were to somehow meet every standard I've encountered in the world, to teach Dayton everything he's supposed to learn right on schedule, to prepare every meal with creativity and perfect nutrition, to do it all, it would mean NOTHING, nothing, nothing, NOTHING, if were to also lose my soul to un-grace in the process. Heaven forbid it. I'd rather lose a whole lot of the perfect and keep my soul alive in grace instead. Hallelujah! Amen.

What's In A Name?

I wrote this letter to my grandparents for their Christmas gift this year. They already knew the baby's name but I wanted to give them the story behind it. I know they've shared it with their guests and visitors so they won't mind my sharing it with my blog guests and visitors. This is the story of my son's name. 

Grammy and PapPap,

When Curtis and I began talking about names for children, which was long before this one was conceived, we knew we wanted to use the name Dayton somewhere. Overtime we decided it would be our first son’s first name, should we have a boy.

According to the internet Dayton means ‘sunny town’. This makes sense in light of the research Mom has done on our English roots. Deighton was a place in Yorkshire. We were De Deightons (of Dayton) for generations. Then, just Deighton, and upon coming to America we simplified the spelling to Dayton. But while we were Deightons we were Knights Templar, Keepers of the Great Seal of England, Lord Mayors of York, Sherriffs of Nottingham (but not bad guys, I checked), among other things. The Deightons may not have been important enough to make the history books, even in footnotes, but we have an interesting and prestigious past. It’s the stuff stories and legends are made of, and the kind of things little boys have pretended to be for centuries. I intend to raise my little boy reading him stories of knights, Robin Hood, and kings, weaving in our own family history. I imagine he will be proud of where we came from, and proud of his name. It’s a strong, noble name.

But I will also tell him about what the name Dayton means to me. It’s much more than a sunny town or a noble past. It’s generosity, gentleness, grace, and gratitude—the things I learned from my Grammy. I aspire to be like you someday when I’m a grown up. Sweet and tenderhearted and very giving. Giving of your time, your compassion, your talents. The world is becoming more and more selfish and there are fewer people like you. But it’s people like you, a ray of sunshine, that make the greatest difference. I want my son to be these things, to be a ray of sunshine. I guess the meaning ‘sunny town’ does fit after all. If we’re all supposed to be a city on a hill where people can see the light of Jesus, then we need to be sunny towns.

My son’s middle name is for his father, Curtis. And the funny thing about Curtis is that when I prayed for a husband I asked for a man just like my PapPap because he was the best man I’ve ever known. A man who would be hard-working, a man devoted to his family, a man who is generous and thoughtful. God took me quite seriously and delivered me a young man very much like my grandfather—down to his driving Fords, voting Republican, and having a unique sense of humor.

Our son will have a second middle name. Some people will think that’s silly, to give a boy two middle names. And some will think it’s weird when they find out that it’s Milford. But I like it. It’s my PapPap’s name. It only seemed right to include you in my son’s name. His name is about legacies and who I want him to grow up to be like. If my son grows up and reminds me at all of you, I will consider myself a success as a parent.

Dayton Curtis Milford Berry is a mouthful, I admit. But it’s really a reminder to my boy of who he is and where he came from. He may be a descendant of people who served and knew English kings, but he is also a descendent of people who served and knew the King of Kings. Ultimately, it’s the example of Christian faith that has inspired me so much throughout the years. It’s the same faith that I aspire to have and that I want to raise my son to have.

I will tell my son about both of you and the fun things we did together. I imagine that in his world the Deightons of old and the Buterbaughs of not so long ago will mold together. Children have a way of blurring the lines that way. But that’s okay. I don’t see many differences between Sherwood Forest and your backyard, between royal feasts and Jean-o’s Pizza. For my son, it’s all part of the same story of where he came from.

May will be here before we know it and so will Dayton. I’m so anxious to meet him and find out who this little person is that God is knitting inside of me. I wonder if he will look like me or like Curtis, and if we’ll be able to pick out little pieces of each of you. There are times when I think Marissa Jane looks just like one of you, and I hope that’s the case with Dayton¸too. I’m excited to bring him to visit Bald Eagle and for you to be able to hold him. I want to take pictures so I can show him as he gets older who we named him after and tell him about how much you loved him.

I’m so grateful that you’re my grandparents. Most people I know don’t have grandparents like mine. Their grandparents are nice people, but they’re just not like the two of you. I’m honored to be able to have a son to name for two of the people that I love most and have loved me the most. Yes, his name is undoubtedly a legacy of love.

PS for my readers...I feel the need to assure everyone that the use of the name 'Milford' will be very limited. I figure one way kids know just how much trouble they're in is based on how much of their name their mother uses. My degrees of trouble will be...Dayton!...Dayton Curtis!...Dayton Curtis Berry!....Dayton Curtis Milford Berry!! But other than the birth certificate and certain other legal documents, the name won't be used much, unless he chooses it for himself when he's older. But it is my gift to him, his whole name. 

Keep On Kicking

I'm tired. I should be in bed. In fact, I should've been in bed long enough that I should be getting up to go to the bathroom about now. But I'm not. I'm here. I'm writing.

I'm writing to you, my son. I have a friend--a kindred spirit, actually, someone I've never met because she lives in England but we both love books and we met through email...this is friendship in the 21st century sometimes...anyway--I have a friend who writes letters to her daughter and she shares them with the rest of us. I liked that idea. I don't think I'll be as disciplined as she is in writing to you every month but I'm going to write to you now. Because I'm thinking about it.

And these days that's when I have to do things--when I think about it. I used to be good at keeping a mental list of things to do, things to write, things to say. But lately I can't keep two thoughts in my brain. "They" say this is pregnancy brain. I find it frustrating. In fact, I find many things frustrating these days--the ache in my back that makes it hard to walk sometimes, my inability to find a comfortable position in bed, how tired I feel and knowing that's only going to get worse. But despite the inconveniences and aches and pains, I don't really mind. Oh, sure, I'll whine. I'm a good whiner...but the truth is, I don't mind. Not if it gives me you.

The reason I wanted to write is because I was thinking about your kicks. Lately, you've been kicking me a lot...and hard. Every now and then you hit something just right in there and it HURTS! But all I can think about it is how much I'm going to miss feeling that. I suppose that's a little silly because that means I'll be holding you, finally seeing your face and touching those beautiful toes we first saw back in October. But you won't be safe and secure and protected inside of me. You'll be out here in this crazy, mixed up, beautiful world, and I won't feel you kicking anymore.

There's so much I'm just itching to share with you. I'm afraid I'm going to be one of those ridiculous people that takes babies to things that they are far too young to appreciate...like taking you to the zoo when you're about two months old. But I'm just so excited for you to see this world, to hear the music, to read you books, to tell you stories. I'm so excited to tell you the story of your name. I hope it inspires you. I think it will.

But I'm going to miss those kicks. I'm going to miss wondering what you're up to in there. I'm going to miss the security we both feel of having you inside of me. But it'll be wonderful...to have you. You have no idea how much and for how long I've wanted you...and you daddy, too. We both are just crazy about you already. Our son.

So, keep on kicking...and ignore me when I whine. Because it's all worth it to have you.
All my love...me