Welcome to the place of overflowing grace in the midst of messy motherhood.
There are a lot of kids up in here, a lot of noise, and a lot of life. It's raw and real, and often sticky.
But I wouldn't trade it. (Except maybe the sticky part.)
Join me for the journey.  

And Their Voice Was Heard

I met a man at the local farmer’s market who won’t celebrate Thanksgiving this year. He always strikes up a conversation with me; I guess I’m an easy customer to remember with my five-strong brood of ducklings – one in a wheelchair – in tow.  He’s a Vietnam vet whose friend sells eggs and apples out of the back of his pickup.  He spent the summer good-naturedly harassing the customers, until his friend caught on and put him to work.  On Saturday, I ran up alone to quickly buy a dozen eggs.  The vegetable farmers were gone for the year, but cold wind whipped across the parking lot, chafing the few die-hard sellers of meat, bread, milk and eggs who remained.  The man saw me coming and greeted


They said my house was too small. For a moment, I believed them. They said I had too many children. For a moment, I believed them. They said I was too poor. For a moment, believed them. They said homemaking is for those incapable of having a career, that it is more important to make a name for myself than a legacy. For a moment, I believed them. They said kids will rob me of the best years, my figure, my energy, my health, and that pouring out my life for them would leave me empty. For a moment,  I believed them. They told me I’d be too busy for self and sleep and even comfort (as if those were mine by rights in the first place). For a moment, I believed them. They told me I would not attain

When He Came to Himself

For the prodigal son, it was a pigsty.  For the children of Israel, it was Babylon.  For me, it was my husband’s 70 hour work week. It’s that moment of awareness.  Of awakening.  Of hitting the bottom, looking around, and realizing where you are.  And whose brilliant idea it was to jump in. It’s when the invading army breaches the wall. When the mind-numbing television is switched off and the quiet of real life rings in your ear. When Facebook offers no witty distraction. When there’s no chocolate in the house. When you’re mucking out someone else’s pig pen and realize how alone you are. When you fall exhausted on the sofa after a long, muddy-floor–stinky-diaper–bloody-nose–dirty-laundry–bur


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