It was a strong feeling — a true vocation. Though the desire to be a mom was great for me, what I felt while holding friends’ newborn infants in my arms more than envy or even joy was fear. I felt terribly clumsy cradling these tiny treasures. They were always so small. Tiny fingers. Scrunched up faces whimpering as I tried to rock them. My arms went stiff. It felt unnatural. So I began to worry: Where were my maternal instincts? How could I want to be a mom so badly if I couldn’t even hold an infant the right way?

Then my vocation was fulfilled on November 15, 2004 when my husband and I brought home our first child (I’m now expecting number three!): A beautiful, healthy baby girl –  our Madeline. I was surprised how holding my own infant was far easier than holding others’ babies.

Looking back, those first few months of motherhood were like those old sepia-toned pictures of loved ones you find in the attic — glittering gold, full of happiness. I easily fell into the rhythm of motherhood, feeling lucky because I bonded instantly with my little miracle. I’d cry out of joy while nursing this symbol of love.

Postpartum blues? Not me. It was more like postpartum mania. I loved holding Madeline. I answered her every cry with my breast, cuddling, or a lullaby. Motherhood felt like heaven to me, and she was nothing short of an earthly angel.

Reality Hits

But suddenly around five months when all my friends’ babies were "sleeping through the night" I hit — no, slammed — into a wall. Madeline was still waking every two hours, even though she wasn’t hungry. She was a happy, energetic baby, but she needed constant interaction. Sleep was elusive for both of us, but I appeared to need it more than she did. I was drunk with exhaustion, and I was also scared — for the first time in my life — of getting pregnant again. To make matters worse, natural family planning wasn’t as simple anymore now that I was nursing.

There was one night when Madeline was waking up every 45 minutes when I lost it. I cried out, "Help me, God." And He did. I discovered an article in my church’s newsletter about Christ’s journey to the cross, and all I could think of were the parallels to the journey into motherhood. Although Jesus’ death on the cross pales in comparison to the act of mothering, being a good, Christian mother is undoubtedly a vocation that demands loving until it hurts — something Jesus did so well.

In today’s society there are a lot of messages out there urging mothers to pamper themselves. Get a massage. Enjoy a pedicure. Hire a nanny or a maid. Ask Dad to fold the laundry, feed the baby, cook dinner and bring home the bacon. Are we afraid to put ourselves on the line? It’s perfectly acceptable and absolutely necessary to ask for help sometimes, but it’s also important to look to Christ as an example of selfless love.

Madeline is 4 years now, and she’s sleeping much, much, better. And both my daughters are both so full of life and personality. I can’t complain (although I admit I do too often). When I do have a dark "mommy moment," I ask for God’s grace, and I gently remind myself of the following similarities between motherhood and Jesus’ journey to the cross:

Jesus Gave Himself Unselfishly and Excessively.

He could have given far less; one drop of His blood could have saved us all. Yet, He freely chose to shed every last bit of it. He gave what is beyond "enough" or sufficient. If there was more to give, He gave it. He never stopped to count the cost. Nor did He expect something in return.

Mothering can be a thankless job at times, especially when your baby is too young to hug you or even smile at you. When my babies were newborns (especially with Madeline since I didn’t know what I kind of "return" I’d get later once she left what my husband and I refer to the "lump stage"), I sometimes felt they were only handed to me when they were crying. It was my job to pacify the infants while others (grandparents, my husband, friends) enjoyed holding them when they were content. Even in the later months Madeline, in particular, would sometimes nurse and nurse and nurse, and I sometimes felt "used."

Even as my kids grow older and "reward" me with hugs, kisses, handmade cards, handpicked flowers, "I love you, Mommy" and other statements that make my heart melt, there won’t be any report cards or a salary to validate my performance or worth as a mother — even though it’s a 24/7 job. But that’s not why I or any other mom take care of my children.

Like Jesus, mothers are called to give unselfishly without expecting anything in return. We sometimes must give every last drop of milk. We have to sacrifice sleep. We are called constantly to nurture our children. Of course, the irony is that we do get so much back in return — the coos, the smiles, the intent stares, giggles, the sacred word "Mama" passed from their lips — all those little things. And at the end of the day, we can hope that the greatest reward will be to raise an unselfish, Christian child.

Jesus Made His Sacrifice a Supreme Act of Love for the Church.

Jesus actually saw sacrifice as desirable — as the most perfect way to show His love for us. This isn’t a popular notion in a time when me, me, me rules the roost. Maybe this idea of "sacrifice is good for the soul" is behind the adage: "love hurts." If it doesn’t hurt — at least a little some of the time — then is it really love?

Sacrificial love is the greatest love of all. "Greater love has no man than this, that a man should lay down his life for his friends" (John 15:13). Just replace man with Mom and friends with children, and it paints an accurate picture of the kind of love a mom has for her children. Every day moms lay down their lives for their children — not literally, but we do give up a lot to be mother to our children. Gone are the days of marathon sweat sessions at the gym, lazy Saturday afternoons of curling up with a good book, a full night’s sleep (can you tell I still miss my sleep?), eating a leisurely meal instead of wolfing down food so we can tend to our kids’ needs…

There’s always another diaper to be changed, another load of laundry to wash, dry and fold, another spill to be soaked up, but all these seemingly mundane tasks are tiny sacrifices and a way to show our children we love them. Jesus says, "If any man would come after me, let him deny himself, take up his cross daily and follow me" (Luke 9:23). Like most moms, my life has changed a great deal since the arrival of my first child; however, by giving up a career outside the home, sleep, and some of my free time, I’m making small (very small compared to what Christ did for us) steps down the path to holiness. Sometimes moms have to deny themselves and put their children’s needs first. When we do this, Jesus smiles down at us.

Jesus Gave Himself Willingly and Even Joyfully.

Okay, here’s where it gets tough, at least for me. It’s not enough to give. As mothers, we must give with great love and joy. From making PBJ sandwiches to playing Peek-a-Boo, everything we do should be done with love. If I give as a mother all day, but then complain to my husband all night long, I am not being Christ-like. (Can you imagine if there was another chapter in the New Testament that consisted of Jesus complaining about dying on the cross for a bunch of pitiful sinners who didn’t appreciate Him?). Similarly, if I hear my child cry, scoop her into my arms and then snivel in frustration, I am not being joyful in my giving.

Believe me, I’ve "lost it" a few times when Madeline has needed me in the wee hours of the night or even during the day when one of my kids throws an irrational fit. I am only human, but God calls me to be more like Jesus in everything I do. I once read — I regrettably can’t remember where — that God does not expect us never to fail. He only expects us never to fail to try. There will be days when I may complain or vent, days when my children test my patience, days when spreading peanut butter over bread seems like the most tedious chore in the whole world, but if I can just take a moment to think about Jesus and what He did for me (and how He did it with joy) then maybe I can go about my motherly duties with more love and less grumbling.

As busy moms, it may be difficult to find time to pray and remember what Jesus did for us. I’ve discovered that an easy way of honoring Him is to just pause for a moment and look at a crucifix or other religious icon (e.g., a rosary, the Bible, a book of saints) and whisper words of thanks and ask for His help. This helps me renew my strength and find peace even in the most chaotic days.

I love being a mother and some of the most beautiful moments of my journey into motherhood have been the ones when I’ve had to give and love until it hurts. Labor immediately comes into mind. What a joyous moment when I held my babies for the first time after hours of work! Talk about the fruit of your labor! Even those sleepless hours of the night when the rest of the house (and it feels like world) are peacefully slumbering are special. In those dark hours, my baby looks to me and no one else to "save" her (from hunger, loneliness, a wet diaper). I can only hope that with God’s grace I can continue to rise to the occasion and give freely, excessively, joyfully and with supreme love.

"Well, what do you want me to make?"

"Some Rice-A-Roni," he replied hungrily.

To her credit, cooking for our family wasn’t easy. I gave up eating all meat at a young age (I abandoned vegetarianism after getting married); my dad is definitely a meat and potatoes guy; and my younger brother has about four foods he regularly eats. I think the poor woman just gave up because whenever she did try to make something creative, at least one of us would eye it like it was a science experiment instead of dinner.

I always loved baking and in college I had a roommate who religiously read Gourmet magazine and Cooking Light . Inspired by her, I started cooking more and found it to be extremely enjoyable. When I got married, I prided myself on cooking for Dave every night and trying out new recipes.

Since having kids I’ve gotten even more into it. I’ve always been a relatively healthy eater (although I have a weakness for all things chocolate) and am always trying out new recipes that are both tasty and nutritious. Just recently, Dave and I have decided we want to start experimenting with more spices, especially those popular in Indian cooking like turmeric and saffron.

I’m also a cookbook junkie and have a huge bookshelf devoted to gustatory tomes. I’ve put together two big binders with clipped recipes as well that include everything from fun finger foods for kids to favorite recipes of my beloved and deceased papa, someone who loved food, cooking, and expressing his love for his grandchildren through their palates.

In fact, I realize now that my grandpa and even my unchef-of-a-mom both played a big role in fostering my own love for cooking and recipe mongering. I’ve found it’s in the kitchen and often at the dinner table where we have the opportunity to serve our families and to connect with them. Even when my mom served up Rice-A-Roni, there was something very nourishing about my family’s dinnertime. We were there together, talking about our days, and my mom was the one who had brought us all together, not so much with her cooking but with her commitment to her family.

It’s no wonder I was eager to dig into Saints at the Dinner Table by Amy Heyd (St. Anthony Press, $19.95). Not only did I discover a generous helping of delicious recipes within its pages — from delectable desserts to family-friendly main dishes — but I also learned a thing or two about some of the book’s featured saints.

Heyd chose 12 saints — from well-loved saintly figures like St. Joseph and St. Clare of Assisi to less notorious ones like St. Josephine Bakhita — and created complete menus based upon their lives.

Each chapter is dedicated to a different saint and includes a brief historical account of his or her life, an inspired menu and a mealtime prayer as well as prompts that provide food for thought on our faith and our lives that are sure to spark dinnertime chitchat.

The book’s intro includes several creative ideas for employing the book, including cracking it open for weekly family meals or using it to start a supper club where each member takes turns "hosting" a different saint, preparing a meal, and leading the discussion about the chosen "guest" of honor.

I thoroughly enjoyed Saints at the Dinner Table and look forward to trying out many of its tasty recipes and inviting saints into my family’s dining room.

The first recipe I plan to try is Saint Margaret’s Charity Meatball Tortellini Soup , although I plan to make my own turkey or all-pork meatballs (I don’t eat red meat so by default, my family doesn’t either unless Dad cooks up an occasional steak for him and the girls). I received permission to reprint the article and share it here. Enjoy!

Saint Margaret’s Charity Meatball Tortellini Soup*

Serves: 10-12
Prep time: 40 minutes
Cook time: 45 minutes
Preheat oven: 350º

Meatballs

You will need:
1/2 pound ground sirloin
1/2 pound ground pork
1/2 cup Italian bread crumbs
3/4 cup Parmesan cheese
1 egg
1/2 teaspoon ground pepper

Put all of the ingredients into a large bowl and gently mix with your hands. Once combined, roll into balls about the size of an acorn. Place on a baking sheet that has sides and bake for 15 minutes. Set aside. (Time saver: Instead of making homemade meatballs, buy frozen ones. They will be a little larger, but still good.)

Soup

You will need:
1 batch of cooked meatballs
1 medium-sized yellow onion, chopped
1 stalk of celery, chopped (about 1/3 cup)
1 tablespoon olive oil
3 (32-ounce) cans chicken broth
1 1/2 cups carrots sliced in 1/2-inch coins
1 bay leaf
1 (14.5-ounce) can petite-cut tomatoes
1/4 teaspoon dried basil
1/2 teaspoon minced garlic
1 1/2 cups of frozen baby peas
1 bag frozen cheese tortellini

In a large soup pot, sauté onions and celery in olive oil over medium heat for 5-10 minutes. The onions should be translucent. Add chicken broth, carrots, bay leaf, tomatoes, and meatballs and garlic. Bring to a boil and cook on medium for 10 minutes. When the carrots are al dente, add basil, peals and tortellini. Bring to a boil again and cook for another 7 minutes until the tortellini is cooked.

*Taken from Saints at the Dinner Table , copyright 2008 by Amy Heyd, reprinted with permission of St. Anthony Messenger Press, 28 W. Liberty St., Cincinnati, OH 45202. Please do not publish this recipe without written permission from St. Anthony Messenger Press.

Support Catholic Exchange by purchasing the book here .

I know where she gets this need to have all eyes on her. Other than the fact that she’s 3 years old, I mean. Like my gregarious dad, I’ve always loved making people laugh. I never minded giving speeches. I felt at home on the stage and loved singing in the church choir in college. Before performing or speaking in front of people, I’d get nervous butterflies, but once I was in the limelight they fluttered away and I felt like a shining star. As Madeline would surely agree when she’s vying for my attention, it’s nice to feel noticed.

Jesus wants to be noticed, too, but there’s a big difference between him and me, him and a preschooler who is still learning how to share her mommy with a sibling. He should be the center of the attention, but he’s not going to fight for it. He’s too much of a gentleman for that. He’s not going to say, “Hey, look at me! Look at me!” He’s not going to throw a tantrum. He’s not going to pull out all the bells and whistles, the lightning bolts and the flashing “I am your Lord and Savior” signs.

Jesus doesn’t work like that. He’s much more subtle. We have to single him out even if we never have a chance to touch his wounds as Thomas did. We have to believe in him even when we can’t see him. We have to notice him in the crying baby, the really irksome colleague who never pulls his weight, the belligerent teenager, the rambling, long-winded priest, the gossipy friend. We have to invite him into our lives. We have to allow him to be the center of attention.

I met my heartbreaker at the Catholic Center and assumed that because he was a regular Mass attendee, he was a nice guy with a strong faith. Maybe this is true now (I hope so), but at the time he was a lost sheep (and so was I in many ways). He hurt me very much and it took me more than a year to get over him even though we’d only dated for about eight months.

During the intense heartache period I remember talking (actually sobbing) to a lot of my Catholic friends, wondering why this happened. How he could he change so quickly? How could he treat me with so little respect and why couldn’t I fulfill his needs and bring him closer to Christ instead of driving him away from his God and from me?

At the time, I blamed his sudden lapse in his faith solely on me and the way I treated him. One particular friend looked at me and said, “Katie, you’re trying to fill an empty well that can’t be filled by you or anyone else. What he’s seeking, you can’t give him.”

Honestly, as a 20-year-old I thought this was a load of you-know-what and a little too, I don’t know, deep or flowery or something. Yet, I like to think I’ve gotten a bit wiser since then and have a small inkling of what my friend was talking about.

So many of us, myself included, find ourselves wondering at times why we feel discontented or what’s missing in our lives. Maybe we’ve finally secured our dream job or found our soul mate or held that baby in our arms we loved even before we were pregnant or went through the adoption process and yet, we still don’t feel completely satisfied. Like Faust, we just keep striving and searching for that elusive key to supreme happiness. All the while, God is quietly calling us to look to him. Jesus is the only one who can fill our wells. If we drink of Jesus’ living water, then we’ll never be thirsty again.

What are you thirsting for right now at this very moment? And if you quench this particular thirst, will it strengthen your relationship with Christ, or will it only offer ephemeral happiness?

I can tell you what I’m thirsting for: the kind of honest love my 3-year-old exhibited  during this past Lenten season. I heard her dump out a heap of toys and start to rummage through them. She’s in the habit of emptying every single toy container, littering our living room floor with potential choking hazards for our mobile baby (think marker caps, crayons and plastic French fries). I’ve asked her over and over  please not to dump all her toys out if she doesn’t intend to play with them and I tell her that she must clean up after herself. I almost started nagging her again, but something stopped me so I bit my tongue. I came out of the bathroom and went to the kitchen to clean up after breakfast. A few minutes later Madeline ran up to me, smiling broadly. “Mommy!” she exclaimed. “I cleaned up all my toys by myself. I did it for you. I did it for Lent because I love you so much.”

Sure enough every toy was stowed neatly away, back in its place. We hugged and my eyes filled with grateful tears.

God is love. When we love and serve others, we are serving him. I need to remember this always as I go about my daily grind. I am thirsting for the means continually to offer this kind of simple but profound love.

My children constantly help me fill my well and I’m going to keep it brimming to the top by humbling myself and asking Jesus for His living water. It’s time to soak up our Lord, the ultimate thirst-quencher.

Then, a few weeks after the birth of my daughter Madeline, I found myself scrutinizing my postpartum body. All the relics of my unhealthy body image suddenly came rushing, falling through me like an avalanche of hate.

But, like He does so often, God gave me a wake-up call, a moment that forced me to take a good, hard look at something other than my gelatinous, postpartum belly. I watched as Madeline started kissing her reflection in a mirror when only minutes before I was grimacing before my own. That’s when I realized that for the first time in my life this self-loathing wasn’t only hurting me, it had the potential to hurt my daughter. Each time I punished myself for not being thin enough, each time I stood in front of the mirror just to berate my body, I was transferring my hate to Madeline and failing to be a healthy role model.

I also recognized that while I’d put an end to my self-destructive behaviors and was physically “recovered,” I was still spiritually sick. It was time for a body image makeover and this time, instead of turning to counselors or even my husband or family for help, I looked to my God for inner healing.

God Formed my Inmost Being

Parents have a responsibility to be healthy role models — to eat well, exercise and take care of ourselves. But we should focus on health and happiness — not flat abs or narrow hips. After all, our children are not concerned with the amount of cellulite on our thighs. We’re beautiful in their eyes. My physical imperfections have no power over my children’s love for me. My babies love me because I feed them, cuddle with them, wipe their heinies, read to them and tend to their every need. Kids couldn’t care less about what size jeans I wear.

God is like our children, except He doesn’t throw tantrums and He loves us with an even deeper unconditional love. Remembering God not only loves me always but that He designed me goes a long way in silencing my inner demons. He “formed my inmost being…knit me in my mother’s womb” (Psalm 139:13) . “Wonderful are your works!” (Psalm 139:14). And I am amazingly one of His works. That should be enough to make me see my body in a new light.

My Body Is a Temple

We all have ugly days. Days when that zit on our nose looks like Mount Kilimanjaro or days when we feel blimpish. However, I’ve learned that it’s in these moments, above all, that I must remember that my body is a “temple of the Holy Spirit who is in [me], whom [I] have received from God…Therefore, honor God with your body” (1 Corinthians 6:19-20).

My body isn’t really mine. It’s on loan from God. That’s humbling enough. What’s more, my body is only a vessel for a far more valuable good — my soul. I should be devoting more energy into making sure my soul is in good shape than worrying about whether or not I have sculpted arms.

At the evening of life, this body — love it or hate it — while deserving of respect, is ephemeral, something I’ll trade in someday, if all goes well, for a new “look” that will be like Jesus’ “glorified body” (Philippians 3:21).

This Is my Body

Every time we make love to our husbands, carry an infant in our womb, nurse a baby or hold an older child until our arms begin to ache, we’re saying, “This is my body. It has been given up for you.” This is a powerful Eucharistic analogy, but it can also be disconcerting if I think of it in terms of when I berate my body. Whether we eat too much or too little, ignore the dignity of the body by partaking in physical acts outside of marriage, or abuse drugs or alcohol, we’re saying, “This is my body. It has been given up for things other than you, my God. It’s been defiled, dishonored and disrespected.”

There are still times when I’m tempted to obsess over my body. But if I meditate on the Christ’s words, I’m reminded that weight gain and saggy breasts are sacrificial signs I’m using my body for what God intended — to be a mother.

Made in the Image of God

Anyone who’s ever wished they were taller, thinner, curvier, etc. (and who hasn’t?) ought to think about this: We’re made in the image of God, not the media. My body may not share the measurements of Hollywood’s ideal (and often distorted) view of beauty, but it does share in the dignity of the image of God. When I’m feeling particularly vulnerable to body angst, I’ve learned to fast on media and to reflect on this statement from the Catechism: “Being in the image of God the human indvidual possess the dignity of a person, who is not something, but someone”(CCC 357).

He Who Comes to Me Will Never Be Hungry

When I used to starve myself, I was physically hungry. But eating disorders are not just about being hungry for food or a desire to look a certain way. They’re an external, measurable scale of self-worth that offer a means of coping with fears and insecurities. For me, being a master of what I ate and the number on the scale was an easy way to feel like I was in control and was “good enough.” Looking back, I know I was trying to fill a void that couldn’t be filled by anyone or anything other than God.

The best way to fully recover from body image problems is to fill up on the on the Lord. He offers all the sustenance we’ll ever need. He truly is the Bread of Life and if we “feed” on Him instead of food or negative thoughts about our bodies, we’ll be filled with peace and never be hungry.