November 25, 2021


Hannah Ko Luttrell

An accompanying note from the author of the following poem speaks of the pace and demands of life at the moment she is moved to lay down these words she describes as her “cry of desperation.”

With her permission, we share her composition on behalf of a multitude of moms who can relate to her desperation—the tension between profession and motherhood; between love for public ministry and love for your private charge, of value that cannot be equaled. Moms who are constantly torn between serving out of their giftedness and serving their own womanhood; between earnings that reward years of professional preparation, and maternal duties that cannot be delegated, as well as thrills that cannot be surpassed. You’re doing what no heart and body but yours can do—carry your child for all those months, bring her into the light, and feed her not just for yourself but from yourself. Being the prime minister (PM)—like New Zealand’s Jacinda Arden, or the senator (Sen.)—like Tammy Duckworth of Illinois, gives you a turn at making history. But those two little girls—PM Arden’s precious 3-month-old Neve and Sen. Duckworth’s newly born Maile—hardly make things easier for either of their moms, or for millions of other moms who can’t even console themselves with “I’m paving the way for other moms tomorrow.” Your agendas keep filling, but your heart already is full—at hearing baby’s cries, at having to leave her behind, against every natural yearning to be with her day and night. Your question is, “What should I do now?”

Our prayer, dear reader, is that you find in one mother’s cries to her God, both the expressions of your own anguish and the consolations of your faith; both your dismay at the storm that threatens your equilibrium and, at the end, the faith-filled reassurance in your God that anchors you, and other mothers, and all God’s children, with Jesus, within the second veil.—Editors. 


We’re coming down to the wire, Lord,
And we’re not sure what to do;
Our problems are closing in on us,
But our eyes are turned to You.*

You’ve parted seas, floated axe heads,
You’ve even raised up the dead;
Empty jars have overflowed with oil,
From heaven you’ve rained down bread.

Dry rocks have spouted water;
You’ve turned water into wine;
Violent storms became a gentle breeze;
The sun stayed still to shine.

Five loaves have fed a multitude;
Haters have themselves undone;
A 90-year-old had a baby boy;
Predicted futures have begun.

It’s clear that nothing’s too hard for You,
And as it’s darkest just before dawn,
So You provide at just the right time,
And, from adversity, faith is born.

* Saturated as it is with scriptural allusions from opening to climax, none of the poem’s stanzas more effectively expresses and encompasses the breadth and scope of the poet’s contemplation—from human fear to unconquerable hope in God—than does this first (see 2 Chron. 20:12).