Twenty-first century mothers are often offered a narrative in which they are martyrs and “hot messes,” lost in their roles as caretakers of tiny souls—but Cultivating Motherhood aims for something deeper and more grace-filled. As a mother, I know the need to cultivate a whole life rooted in Christ only intensifies as my daughters grow. My hope for this column is to share practical ways to still flourish and cultivate wholeness in Christ, while also inspiring our children to grow into sturdy oaks of righteousness.
“We beseech Thee, Almighty God, to purify our consciences by Thy daily visitation,
that when thy Son our Lord cometh He may find in us a mansion prepared for Himself . . . ”― The Book of Common Prayer, “The Fourth Sunday of Advent”
It was a bright, clear, cold December morning when I got the phone call. I was busy in my mother-in-law’s kitchen mixing up my famous Victorian Christmas pudding, chock-full of dried fruit, nuts, breadcrumbs, and Crisco (in lieu of suet) while my nieces squealed underfoot and my one-year-old daughter crawled eagerly after them.
We’d been living with my husband Casey’s parents for four months at that point, still recovering from the trauma of leaving our first home and ministry under considerable duress. Casey, a pastor by vocation, had finally gotten a new job as a janitor at the local nuclear plant. Just until he gets a new church job . . . just until we can get our feet back under us . . . We had done the math over and over again, and though our budget would be incredibly tight, we were confident we could now afford an apartment of our own.
So we bravely put in an application for an apartment. The landlord, a kindly man who already knew of us through mutual connections, told me he was fairly sure he’d have one available for us by the new year. That was the best news we could receive under the circumstances, so we began praying for our hoped-for new home.
A week later, I packed my Christmas pudding batter into a well-greased bowl, wrapped it in parchment paper and foil, and eased it into my mother-in-law’s Instant Pot. Just as she punched in the steam settings, my phone rang in my back pocket. I recognized the landlord’s number and hurried outside to answer it.
“Miz Albritton?” The landlord’s slow Southern drawl held a hint of excitement. “How you doin’? Would you be able to move in next week?”
My mouth fell open. “Next week?! But I thought—”
“I know, but I just had a lease fall through. An older lady put in an application and was gonna move into this newly-painted, newly-carpeted unit, but she had to back out at the last minute. Somethin’ about her health, I don’t think it’s good. So it’s yours if you want it! It’s a downstairs apartment, and like I said, it’s got new paint and new carpet. What do you say?”
How I got the words out without crying, I don’t know. I do remember, as I began planning aloud for us to move in the following weekend, that I kept thinking, It’s a miracle! It’s a miracle!
Then the landlord cheerfully remarked, “And just think, you’ll be able to move in before Christmas”—and that’s when tears of sheer joy sprang to my eyes.
We moved in a whole two weeks before Christmas. With help from Casey’s family and mine, we moved the majority of our belongings from our storage unit: beds, bookcases, most of our books, and my vintage writing desk. Downsizing from a decently-sized, three-bedroom house into a small two-bedroom apartment wasn’t the easiest of tasks—but it didn’t matter. This little place was ours. It was the best Christmas gift Casey and I could’ve asked for.
We were able to put up our own tree—a wedding gift from my sisters two years before—and tuck three small presents beneath its lighted limbs. We attended all our merry family gatherings over the holiday, then went home each time to our own quiet, peaceful space. It was wonderful.
A full year later, it’s still wonderful. I love our apartment even though it’s small, often messy, and we had a little problem with German roaches the first few months. In many ways, at least to me, it feels more ours than the red-brick manse where I first became a wife and then a mother. We loved that house, but because of the circumstances of our life there, we never felt completely safe and secure. This place is different. Good things have happened here. I’m so grateful.
Yet even with this blessed stability, it still feels like a “now and not yet” place. I often catch the longing in my husband’s hazel eyes whenever he gazes at his theological volumes, which have remained mostly unused while he continues his unglamorous work of scrubbing bathrooms at the nuclear plant. I take Molly to all the nearby parks, yet even I quietly wish we had a backyard with a swing set and a picnic table. As my belly swells with our growing second daughter, I wonder anxiously how we’ll fit two little girls in the nursery that already doubles as extra library space for their bookish parents.
The desire for a more permanent home—a place where Casey and I are both able to live out the callings God has placed on our hearts—is real. Yet this Christmas will find us still in this in-between place, wondering how long the Lord will call us to remain rooted in the same town where we grew up, in the same church where we married, in the same little apartment where we’ve experienced so much healing.
Whatever the answer to that question may be, I do expect good from Him. 2025 has been a year of living small. Everything from our budget to our living space to our travels may seem tight and confined to outside observers. And yet, I have seen God’s goodness, provision, and abundance in more ways than I ever thought possible this year. Has it been an easy year? Not really. We’ve both worked really hard, with Casey taking on preaching gigs while I’ve added a weekly nursery job on top of mothering and virtual assistance. Nevertheless, this new normal is so much more freeing and abundant than the life we came from. No longer are we constantly looking over our shoulders, fearing the disaster and rejection that eventually did strike. God has met every need in ways we never expected. Our marriage has grown stronger, our daughter’s social and physical development have improved, and our relationships with friends and family have deepened. And when our new baby is born, she will be received into a church family that actively loves her, her parents, and her big sister.
In my experience, the small, hidden life is sometimes the most unencumbered: you have no choice but to set clear priorities, and they in turn make room for all kinds of possibilities. This Christmastide will be a much slower, gentler holiday for us, because at eight months pregnant I simply won’t have a choice! But oh, what a joy it’ll be to quietly, intentionally lean into the magic of Christmas with our two-year-old. By intentionally saying “no” to many aspects of the Christmas hustle, I have the opportunity to make room for her to experience Christmas in a way that’ll make her eyes sparkle. And by remembering the boundaries lines have fallen for us in pleasant places, this little Christmas could be our most spacious yet.
“Let every heart prepare him room, and heaven and nature sing . . .”
The featured image, “Silver Cup of Pine,” is courtesy of Julie Jablonski and is used with her kind permission for Cultivating.
As someone who loves creating cosmos from chaos, Maribeth Barber Albritton is a storyteller at heart. Even in seasons requiring a fierce stubborn courage, she will be finding ways to tell herself and others a good, true, beautiful story. As part of that broader storytelling bent, Maribeth serves as Executive Director of Cultivating Oaks Press. She has contributed to the production of Cultivating Magazine’s online and print editions, and currently writes the Cultivating Motherhood column. She was privileged to serve as Executive Assistant at The C.S. Lewis Foundation from 2022-2024.
Her self-published science-fiction novel, Operation Lionhearted, was a double-finalist in the 2022 Realm Awards (Debut & Science Fiction Categories). These days, she writes “Letters from Crickhollow,” a Substack for those who want to cultivate beauty, grace, and courage in their busy lives.
Maribeth, her pastor-husband Casey, and their daughters Molly and Leslie live in Louisiana, where they love taking long walks through state parks and adding theological volumes, novels, and board books to their family library.
Add a comment
0 Comments