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 daughter grows. 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.
At the time of this writing, my daughter is 17 months old. She can’t talk yet, other than her enthusiastic cries of “YES!” and the occasional “Mama,” but trust me when I say that her eyes do all the communicating she needs at the moment.
Her eyes are large and set far apart, like mine. But where my eyes are a dark brown, hers are piercing cornflower blue. I’ve rarely seen such expressive eyes in a child. Today at the park, they’re full of unbounded delight.
The park is two minutes from our apartment, full of “trains” just large enough for toddlers to climb inside. There’s a toddler-size train engine with a bell to ring as loud and as hard as small, chubby hands can ring it. There’s a passenger car where mommies and babies can sit at a short table and enjoy a snack. And, of course, a little distance from the trains, there are toddler-size slides.
But Molly is not interested in those slides. With the wind dragging at her flaxen hair and making her blink back tears, she toddles her way instead towards the slide designed for much bigger kiddos.
I swallow back a half-laugh, half-groan. Here we go again. I help her up the winding steps, up and up and up, bending to grasp both her hands. The top of the slide is probably ten feet off the ground and my lower back is killing me. Can I be blamed if my mind wanders to the treacherous Stairs of Cirith Ungol?
Molly, however, is not yet familiar with Frodo and Sam’s ascent into Shelob’s lair. She only knows that the slide is fun and that Mama can take her all the way up!
We reach the top of the slide. I ease myself into a seated position and lift Molly into my lap. She’s already grinning behind her pacifier. Her eyes shine with glee.
“One…” I count.
Molly giggles.
“Two…”
She narrows her eyes slightly, bracing herself.
“Three!”
I hurl myself forward and off we go. It’s over much too fast, considering all the effort it took me to get us both to the top.
But when I look at Molly, she’s beaming. She wiggles off my lap, plants her sandaled feet on the ground, and grabs my finger.
And then she drags me back to the steps, her blue eyes saying as clear as day, “Do it again! Do it again!”
In my experience (between eight younger siblings, my own daughter, and eleven nieces and nephews, I have quite a lot), it’s hard for children to stay bored. There’s always something new and marvelous to do. When my brother and I were young, we filled my dollhouse with Lord of the Rings and Sonic the Hedgehog action figures—and the dramatic storylines we conjured were worthy of Downton Abbey. These days, one of my nieces has an entire family of imaginary friends, while my mischievous nephews bellow my name, making sure I’m watching before they clamber up a tree. Molly herself spends an inordinate amount of time pretending her baby monitor is an iPhone and that she’s talking to her daddy.
Their energy often seems unlimited (much to the stifled dismay of their exhausted parents). But so does their capacity for delight.
In his book Orthodoxy, G.K. Chesterton famously wrote:
“Because children have abounding vitality, because they are in spirit fierce and free, therefore they want things repeated and unchanged. They always say, ‘Do it again’; and the grown-up person does it again until he is nearly dead. For grown-up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony. But perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony. It is possible that God says every morning, ‘Do it again’ to the sun; and every evening, ‘Do it again’ to the moon. It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired of making them. It may be that He has the eternal appetite of infancy; for we have sinned and grown old, and our Father is younger than we.” [1]
“For we have sinned and grown old, and our Father is younger than we.” Out of all the statements in this single quotation, this is the one that brings tears to my eyes.
The first half of the sentence throbs with longing for the joy of Eden, and it tells me something I already know about myself: after thirty-three years on this earth, even I (who consider myself a generally happy person) have lost so much of my “spirit fierce and free.” But the second half of the sentence is the real astonishment. It’s figurative speech, of course, to say that the Creator is younger than His creation, but Chesterton is clear: God is full of irrepressible merriment, and His unlimited strength allows Him to take unguarded pleasure in His creation. Not only that, but since we are created Imago Dei, in His image . . . then surely there’s some aspect of His merry nature that still lives inside us.
I know a man—a dear man—who shakes his head skeptically at the idea of God having a sense of humor. I love him, but I find his view of God rather measly. Even in our fallen state, we’re capable of throwing lavish Christmas feasts, laughing over a joke or a funny memory, gushing over a baby’s cuteness, and marveling over the sheer absurdity of a walrus. If our artistic capabilities stem from the fact that our Creator is an artist, then might it also be that the very reason we’re capable of having fun, of truly enjoying ourselves and the world around us, is because our Creator Himself overflows with delight?
Watching my daughter, I’m convinced that the joy she takes in the world around her is part of the way she’s made in God’s image. It grieves me that one day she won’t be so uninhibited. She’ll likely grow more guarded and hesitant, and some of that growth will be natural. Teenagers go through that “I’m too cool for school” phase, after all. Grief, too, will do a number on her heart. It’s inevitable.
But what I fear is that one day—God forbid—I or some other cynical adult will reprimand her too harshly for her exuberance. We’ll take our frustration out on her, whether justified or not, and she’ll be so mortified, she’ll curl up like a snail in her shell. She’ll tell herself to think twice before she lets herself be unhindered and vulnerable like that again. She’ll force herself to grow up too fast.
Of course, there’ll be times when I’ll have to give her lessons in proper etiquette, and life will teach her plenty about grief, disappointment, and injustice. But oh, I do not want to be the reason my sweet girl loses the sparkle in her eyes every time we’re at the park, or when she snuggles in the big bed every Saturday morning between me and her daddy, or when she hurries after her cousins, squealing and waving her tiny fists.
I don’t want her to be cynical. I want her to name her griefs and her longings, to be wise and observant. But I don’t want embarrassment or a false, overblown sense of maturity to define the way she faces the world. I want her to know joy even in sorrow, and I want her to know she is free to be merry.
Which means I must start by giving myself that freedom, too, and cultivating it in our home.
Life is hard and uncertain these days for our little family, but it’s still good—so we try to make merry over things like my husband applying for a promising new job, or the completion of my latest article, or Molly learning a new word. Sometimes it looks like making much over Molly’s latest accomplishment: squealing with pride, clapping, hugging and kissing her so she knows Oh! This is exciting! Mama and Daddy are happy for me! Other times it looks like taking myself out on a date and enjoying a hot chocolate and warm croissant in slow, blessed silence—or a family jaunt to our favorite state park, a stroll through rows of blooming azaleas, and a carefree lunch at our favorite grill.
One day, we’ll celebrate something truly momentous. One day, we trust, my husband will have a new job in a good, kind church. One day, I’ll finish my second novel. One day, Molly will learn how to read and a whole new world will open up to her. Our merriment over those things will be huge.
But in the meantime, we’ll do it again, and again, and again: we’ll make merry even if it looks like making a dozen cupcakes for the sheer joy of it, buying flowers for our tiny apartment kitchen, and going up the slide for the four-hundredth time. Make no mistake, this takes a great deal of courage. It takes strength we barely possess anymore to exult in the joys of life (especially a small life) and not give way to cynicism.
But with each of these courageous choices, we regain our spirit fierce and free. We get a taste of the joy of Eden and the glory of the world to come. We share in our children’s immense relish for life. And—dare I say it?—I think even we tired mamas may grow a little younger.
[1] Chesterton, G. K. 2020. Orthodoxy. Courier Dover Publications.
The featured image, “Arch Rock,” is courtesy of Amelia Freidline and is used with her kind permission for Cultivating.
Maribeth Barber Albritton is a wife, mother, and storyteller. She serves as Director of Media and Communications for Cultivating Oaks Pxress and has contributed to the production of Cultivating Magazine’s print editions. She also served as Executive Assistant at The C.S. Lewis Foundation from 2022-2024.
Maribeth has a deep love for history, literature, and film. These keen interests inspired her debut science-fiction novel, Operation Lionhearted, as well as her blog, “A Writer’s Tale,” where she wrote a number of book and movie reviews from the angle of the Christian imagination. 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 daughter Molly currently live in their home state of southeast Louisiana.
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