The other day I wanted to find room to breathe, to weep over what someone reminded me I’d “lost”. Work I was good at. Work that mattered.
But then you made me pause.
You clambered into my lap and asked for your “baby” and “blankie”. And when you nursed peacefully away to sleep in the early hours of that afternoon I stroked your wispy soft hair so fine it felt I had grasped a slice of heaven.
I reflected misty-eyed on how brief this window would be, when I could nurture your body with the strength of my own. And how that would be far better than anything else.
I looked at you for a long time as you slept and thought of all the ways you watch me in the hours of the day, taking in every word, action and languages unspoken as we build our home in the mundane but important ways that matter.
Even in the matter of munching on a tomato ice cream.
I remembered what my heart has always whispered to me in my moments of self-doubt. We are blending the ordinary and the eternal, you and all your siblings and I.
And hard as some moments may be, I never want it to stop.
My heart sings because you open my eyes to every small thing our Maker delights in beginning with the dry and crusty brown leaves that you see beautiful enough to bend and pick and gift me with.
I have learned enough after almost ten years of this mama gig that with every passing yearly milestone I will be challenged to ask if I made the most of every opportunity to pour in all I possibly can to lead you in the right paths.
And I am determined to live true to my conscience.
Every day we are carving out a kingdom culture built on solid Truth, shared with the larger community whom we serve, in which we lack nothing that is truly necessary for a life so abundant with love, joy and peace and that will bring forth fruit in its due season.
Because our Father has promised, I believe.
The branches were bare before, but they’re sprouting green leaves. Because I started believing.