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.  

Heard

My heart caught in my throat with every dusty step closer to Shiloh.  It had been fourteen hard miles of walking.  I hadn’t walked the familiar road in over three years.  But today, landmarks passed all too quickly.  The time had come. My husband walked beside me, a child on his shoulders.  His child.  But not mine.  He had several children before I ever did.  Oh, I’d been at their births.  I sometimes held them in the night as infants.  I had cleaned them, cooked for them, cuddled them as toddlers.  But I am not their mother; they neither truly love nor respect me. I was at my husband’s wedding too.  His.  But not mine.  We had already been married for years.  But they were childless years.

Between the Lines

Maybe I sighed as I threw the sixth load of laundry in the wash that afternoon.  After a hardy round of stomach flu circulating through the young male population of my house, I was in sanitizing mode.  And maybe I was tired.  Maybe I was just a little bit done.  Except, I wasn’t done, of course.  Motherhood starts with the marathon of childbirth and doesn’t really let up.  At least, it hasn’t for me in the last nine years.  Oh, I have wonderful, memorable, spectacular days as a mother and I absolutely love this life I’m called to.  But that doesn’t negate the fact that strings of sleepless nights catching puke falling from various bunk beds can make basic daily functions close to impossible.

 

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