mothered

As I expected, being a mom has opened up an entirely new dimension of God to me—but in unexpected ways. I never expected that one of the questions that would keep nudging me in the middle of the night would be “Why are we so slow to see God as both our Father and our Mother?”

I don’t exactly mean this question in the sense of “God is genderless”—although I would venture to suspect that, considering Genesis 1 & 2, the masculine half of the gender binary is at best an incomplete representation of who God is. What I mean is, why do we (or maybe it’s just me) habitually fail to see the character of God in the role of mothers?

When Clara was a newborn, I didn’t know what to dread more: the days or the nights. The nights were fraught with the fear of hearing her cry again, as she awoke hourly or more to eat (I didn’t know until much later that this was not normal, and that she wasn’t feeding efficiently). The days were spent in an all-out war with her constantly-tense and alert little body to get her to sleep. I can still feel her tiny self rigid in my arms, sometimes screaming in protest and sometimes just wanting to interact with me—but never, ever sleeping.

Now, after eight months of doing all the small things that nurture a baby—changing wet diapers, feeding when hungry, holding when frightened or tired or sad, building comfortable routines, constantly communicating love and safety in both words and actions—I sway and sing three short verses of “O The Deep, Deep Love of Jesus” in her dark room, and she immediately rests her head on my shoulder in submission. I lay her down and she sleeps.

And I wonder: Why do we so rarely notice God in this?

Like our mothers, He knows what we need even when we are protesting it with every fiber of our feeble being.

Like our mothers, He holds us and comforts us even we are screaming in His face.

Like our mothers, He provides for every seemingly insignificant thing that, over time, becomes a firm foundation of His trustworthiness to us.

This passage from the Psalms comes to mind:

Because Your lovingkindness is better than life,
My lips will praise You.
So I will bless You as long as I live;
I will lift up my hands in Your name.
My soul is satisfied as with marrow and fatness,
And my mouth offers praises with joyful lips.

When I remember You on my bed,
I meditate on You in the night watches,
For You have been my help,
And in the shadow of Your wings I sing for joy.
My soul clings to You;
Your right hand upholds me.

Psalm 63:3-8

God’s lovingkindness might be the most mother-like attribute He possesses. It is sometimes called His mercy, or His faithful love; my favorite way to describe it is “a love that will not let me go.” A love like a mother’s—a love whose steadfastness is decided by the identity of the giver, not the worthiness of the receiver.

And God’s help is no ordinary help, either: this comes from the very same word used to describe the woman as man’s “helper” in Genesis 2. It’s a word for deliverance and rescue. For filling a desperate need that no one else can fill.

Loved like this, we can rest our heads on God’s shoulder in submission. We can trust in Him to satisfy and to protect. We can sleep.

After Clara’s 4am feeding, when she is fully satisfied and resting limp in my arms, another favorite verse from the Psalms often surfaces:

“Be still, and know that I am God. I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth!”

Psalm 46:10 ESV

I have studied this verse many times before, and what I always come back to is the meaning behind the phrase “Be still.” To me, worded like that, it has always sounded like an admonishment to a fidgety child—as if the intent is just to stop moving, to sit in rigid silence, like a kid might do in Sunday school. But it actually means “to sink, to collapse, to relax, or to become helpless”—to go limp, and know that God is God, and His will shall prevail.

Like Clara does now when it’s time to sleep after her midnight snack: no tension, no anxiety, no fear. Just perfect trust, perfect satisfaction, because I’m her mommy and she is safe.

How much more perfectly we are all mothered by our God—so may we learn to do the same.