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.  

Benched

“You’re that mom of five little boys?” “You’re that mom of the kid in the wheelchair?” “You’re that homeschooler, that stay-home mom, that mom with a huge vehicle full of car seats parked in the handicapped space?” “You’re that one who writes that weird blog?” No. I mean, yes.  I do write that weird blog.  I do homeschool, and don’t have a paying job, and do drive a beast and park it boldly.  My kids are young and male and awesome; the one in the wheelchair revels in your attention and will probably take your money if you offer it.  And I answer to “Mommy” 36,453 times a day. But that’s not me. Every day I see articles and encouragement to moms and wives for their great and holy work.  And i

Lost in Translation

I have a story. I was born in sin.  Unwanted, unloved, unpitied.  They left me where I fell from the birth canal.  They weren’t careless – they were very purposeful to ignore my helpless cries.  I choked feeble little breaths, lying in my own blood, covered in filth.  No one even bothered to cut my umbilical cord, to sever me from my gestation and consider me alive.  No one even acknowledged me.  I was simply left.  Vulnerable.  Naked.  Alone.  Good for nothing, wanted by no one but death. But there was someone who heard my weak squalling.  He saw me, flailing, gasping each pitiful breath as I waited for the last, but he didn’t turn away from that bedraggled, nearly lifeless mess like everyo

 

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