Behind These Walls

     In the stillness of the night I shuffled to my bathroom not feeling well. I could not understand this  feeling taking over my body. I was shivering with a cold that seemed to penetrate my core, and yet my flesh was drenched in sweat. My stomach churned from the encircling fear, panic, anticipation, and then fear again. The sleepy haze began to lift and the familiarity of the situation began to reawaken lost senses, I knew what was coming, this was not entirely new. Suddenly a small trickle made its way down my legs…my water had begun to break. A small trickle yes, but enough to notify me as to what was to come. Alone in the still of the night I shivered in anticipation of the coming life. A son? A daughter? Who would this tiny person be? While the world lay sleeping I sat alone in the bathroom too tired to move, too excited to sleep. My belly began to tighten more noticeably. 

I made my way back to bed and tapped my husband’s arm, “I’m in labour, “ I whispered. From somewhere between a dream and reality my husband mumbled back, “Do you need anything?” One hand on his arm and one hand on my belly getting tighter by the minute I assured him I would be find and to get some sleep. My labours were long, I knew the day ahead would feel like a century, and that at least one of us should rest. I lay back down in bed and huddled in my blanket trying to feel a glimmer of warmth. It was April and the night air in the house was still to cool to feel comfortable outside a blanket. There in the quiet, away from anyone’s eyes, and out of the spotlight my body worked hard to bring new life into the world. Sixteen hours later I would find myself in a dark and quiet room yet again. Surrounded by a small team of encouragers and a midwife, I would give one last push and meet our second daughter. 

It is no surprise that the very moment that gives us the title of “mom” is hidden away from the eyes of a noisy world. Our babies, though full of life and felt by us mothers, also hidden away for months. A life lived in the hidden marks both the celebratory reasoning behind labour, and the definition of motherhood itself. 

As I drive down the streets in the evening the glow of light illuminates each window. Inside, hidden away from public, is life unfolding. A mother’s hand has guided, crafted, built up, and knit together the people inside. It was her tireless work in the hidden that brought about life to these homes. And if she is wise, she will know that the life given was only because she gained strength from the one and only Life-Giver. 

A mother’s labour of love is not recognized by the public eye. She does not win awards for her problem-solving skills. She is a not a Michelin Star chef, though her best critics adore her food. She will not win a Nobel Peace Prize for breaking apart the war in her living room She fixes boo-boos, and mends souls. She kisses the rejected, and props up the hopeless. Her tender compassion known only by those who know her best.  
     It is here in the hidden that a mother will fight her biggest battles against her own fears for her family, for battered relationships to be mended among her people, and against her own desire to be known. Behind these walls it can be ever so rewarding, and yet oh so painfully lonely it almost seems to lock her in. 

A glance in the mirror fresh out of the shower tells me I am not who I once was. I am full of scars and stories, and glistening in the kisses of my children and husband long rubbed into my cheeks. My dreams have changed, by identity redefined. To rise each morning to complete the task at hand I have to know deeply in my soul, before my feet touch down, that though I am hidden away from the watching world, I too am loved, adored, desired, and prayed for. Like my daily labour of love given to my family it is my precious Jesus who also works in the hidden. He sees me. He loves me. He adores me. He prays for me. All his work done in the hidden places of Heaven. But to the eyes of my God my life has never been hidden. I am not alone. Like an expectant mother, He knew my life before the world could see. He wrote my days, He knew my world, He knew my character. He thought of me…in the hidden. 

  We are mothers in the hidden. A secret privilege not paid attention to by the world. Though abundantly more challenging than we ever imagined possible, we can find rest in knowing we are known by a King.

For you formed my inward parts;
    you knitted me together in my mother's womb.
I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.
Wonderful are your works;
    my soul knows it very well.
My frame was not hidden from you,
when I was being made in secret,
    intricately woven in the depths of the earth.
Your eyes saw my unformed substance;
in your book were written, every one of them,
    the days that were formed for me,
    when as yet there was none of them.
How precious to me are your thoughts, O God!
    How vast is the sum of them!
If I would count them, they are more than the sand.
    I awake, and I am still with you. (Ps 139:13-18)

All my love,
Like Grandma Did

Like Grandma Did


  1. Sweetest post for mothers ever!! Thank you for this gift♡ of this post.


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[name=Sarah Slanzi] [description=Old-fashioned homemaking steeped in God's grace] (facebook= (instagram= (pinterest=