The conversation had come about after she was punished for hurting the middle daughter. Ahh, the middle child. I remember when she was still a toddler [and an] elderly patient warning a pregnant me to make her feel loved.
“The middle ones. They’re the ones who often feel forgotten. I made that mistake, so don’t you do it too,” he had warned.
She was the one I worried about most. Her heart was so kind, but also it was fragile. You could crush her spirit with a cross look, so I made sure to lift her up frequently, telling her how special she was. And apparently, I realized as I sat on the bed with my eldest, I had more often [chosen] her side in sibling rivalry. Because she was so tiny, she was the one we guarded. Her tender soul needed our gentle touch, but I wondered if in my cultivating I had made my oldest girl feel less. I mean, she certainly wasn’t the baby.
Sigh. The baby. My sweet, precious, adorable youngest daughter who shined brighter than a thousand stars. My baby girl, always getting into mischief, but always winning me over with a mischievous grin and clever quip. She had us all wrapped around her chubby finger, and she knew it. Heck, we all knew it, and not a week went by without me worrying I may be raising a spoiled brat as my last child. Oh, Lord, help me.
Between worrying I was spoiling one, not building the uniqueness and confidence of another, or neglecting the first, I was in for a challenge. I contemplated if I was putting too much responsibility on my eldest, being too coddling with my middle, or lenient with my last.
And that’s when I muttered to myself, “Raising tiny humans is HARD.”
And that’s when God spoke to my heart, “it leads them to me.”
I nodded in understanding, yeah, God, I get it. Parenting was tough, and yeah, I probably messed it up frequently, but praise the Lord, I didn’t have to get it perfect. Where I fell short, He picked up. I had devoted myself and my family to Him, and He was faithful to take care of us. I could try my best, but with my human hands, I might fumble. Thankfully my girls were His girls. I could relax in the fact that I wasn’t raising serial killers with my mistakes, and my God drew my daughters to His heart. Even if I failed, they were His. I was His.
Raising tiny humans was hard, but my God worked all things for our good. He placed them within me, and before they were even a spark He knew I could parent them well. He has given me a task, and He equips me each day to do my best. And when I do less than His best, He is faithful to draw my daughters closer to Him. Maybe it’s hardest when I try to do it too much on my own, but when I can release my worries to Jesus, He can smooth out the rough spots and fix my focus. Instead of seeing it simply as hard, instead, I can count it all as joy.
