Tonight, for only the second time in her little life, Beatrice needed to be walked to sleep. (Usually she’s happy to just nurse and cuddle and drift off, but tonight a new tooth left her beside herself, poor babe.) After trying to solace her and lay down with her, I finally scooped her up and held her close as I walked and walked. I caught a glimpse of our reflection in the window — sweet little hand resting peacefully on my shoulder, eyes closed, finally resting. I held her closer. She needs me.

Isn’t that so much of what being a mother is — being needed, and responding to the point of deep personal sacrifice? I’ve been thinking about that a lot, lately, and hopefully will be able to get those thoughts out clearly at some point. But for now, it hovers in the back of my mind, making me rethink motives and reactions.

Sometimes it’s a sweet baby who really doesn’t ask for much at all, and of course I’ll cuddle you, you growing-too-fast baby doll! Sometimes the need is from an exhausted and wound up boy whose wildness is just not quite as adorable. Still, he needs me. He needs me to not snap, to not just get him in bed as fast as I can and be done. He needs me to remind, to train, to guide, and to do it all with patience that speaks of love.

To pour out our lives — that is the call. And there is grace.