Adele Werner

The day I was baptized was a cold day in December. It was five days before Christmas and nearly 17.75 years after my earthly entrance. My pastor helped me to keep the Fourth Commandment by honoring my father and mother’s wishes to have a “private” Baptism, with just close friends and family in attendance. My sponsors are my youth group leader and my friend’s mom. That day was all sorts of things, and I felt all sorts of feelings—but the biggest one was peace. Most people I sit with in the pew don’t remember their baptismal day, and my children won’t remember theirs either. Because I remember mine, I want each of you to remember and celebrate yours and your children’s. 

It’s a tough season for my family. It’s not the toughest it could be. We’re all (mostly) healthy. We’re not looking to move or leave our jobs anytime soon. We’ve settled into a rhythm of sorts. And yet, we feel a bit more strapped and stressed than ever. If I’m being honest, I want a roadmap out of the tough. Maybe you can relate to this feeling?

“I don’t want to pray right now,” my two-and-a-half-year-old says. I know that these words don’t actually mean she doesn’t want the comfort of prayer, but she doesn’t want to go to bed. She’s tucked into her soft pink blankets, her purple bunny (affectionately called Floppy) is tucked under her arm, and her head is on the pillow. My husband and I are always flustered when this happens, even though it’s practically become a nightly occurrence. But we value prayer and so we press her to find something she wants to pray for (right now, we often thank God for princess dresses). 

We long for deep community. We strive for healthy and helpful relationships with family members, church people, and neighbors. But if we’re honest with ourselves, especially as parents, we usually stay in that longing spot. We want the village, but we don’t feel like we can do anything about it.  

Psalm 119:15–16 states, “I will meditate on your precepts and fix my eyes on your ways. I will delight in your statutes; I will not forget your word.” When I read this verse, I cannot help but feel just slightly guilty. You see, I definitely do not know Scripture as well as I would like. I feel like I have a pretty good excuse, I wasn’t raised with the Bible in my household. But at the end of the day, it’s an excuse. Psalm 119 not only reminds me of my desire to remember God’s Word but that I desire for my children to have the Word stored up in their hearts (see Psalm 119:11). 

My wedding anniversary is coming up. Every year midsummer, I think about the vows we made and how we continue to live out those vows. And if I’m being honest, sometimes I think about how we fall short on that.

“Daddy! Daaaaaaaaaaaa-deeee! Daaaaaaaa-daaaaa! Dada! DADA!” My two-year-old cries out in the middle of the night. We can hear her over our audio monitor getting more frantic. She is unsure if this will be the time she’s abandoned or if one or both of her parents are on the way. My husband and I both know she won’t go back to sleep unless one of us enters her room, lets her know we heard her, and gives her comfort. My husband gets up to make sure she gets back to a good night of sleep.

May isn’t just the month of Mother’s Day; it is also Maternal Mental Health Awareness Month. Before I became a mother, I thought that the conversation surrounding maternal mental health simply wasn’t all that different from everyday normal mental health conversations. I’m not sure there was any way to prepare me for the shift that would take place immediately after giving birth. I’ve started to tell others that I see God’s faithfulness so clearly in labor, delivery, and postpartum—but what I don’t often say is exactly why.

I’ve never been a person who really relied on or noticed patterns in my life. I never struggled with feeling too scheduled or the opposite feeling of overwhelmed with no structure. That is, until I became a parent. Our first daughter was born during our year of vicarage, and so, when I left my in-person job for maternity leave, I also left that position permanently. Navigating being a new mom with no weekly or daily sense of rhythm (except the endless time-loop of feeding every two to three hours), I felt that I needed to mark time passing in a new way.

I never had any interest in watching the 1946 James Stewart Christmas classic, It’s a Wonderful Life, until college. Many adults and teens in my life had droned on about how boring they found this particular movie, so when one friend insisted we watch it as a group, I was ready to pretty much zone out. Instead, I was blown away. Now, for my husband (who also watched it for the first time that day) and me, it’s a tradition. (Though we do have to overlook the whole thing about people becoming angels when they die, and then angels having to do good works to earn their wings.) As George Bailey rushes into his home full of life and cheer, I am always holding back at least one tear. And maybe one or two spill over. Why does this happy ending elicit a tearful response?