I’m not that strong.
All it takes is pollen + pregnancy to take me down. Spiraling down, discouraged and exhausted.
“What do you not think you’re good at?” my patient husband (who’s been down this road a few times before) asks.
“Life. I’m not good at life.”
Frail. Dust. Completely broadsided by pollen, for crying out loud.
And He calls me valuable. Ransomed, not with gold or silver, but with His own blood.
You kinda got a bad deal, I mutter to the Only Wise King. I got just who I wanted, from before the foundations of the world, thank you very much.
My happiest three year old in the world girl came home from a special outing with her Nana and Papa a few evenings ago, flying high, smiling, dancing, telling me all about it. But when I tucked her little body under the covers, she quietly said, “I’m just glad that I’m back here now.”
“You mean, back at our house? Or just with me?”
“With you. I like being with you.” And she rolled over and closed her sweet eyes.
And I choked a bit.
I’m home to her. She thinks that I’m, like, a real mama. I feel like a trying-really-hard-and-never-quite-sure mama. But she doesn’t think that. Somehow, she finds the nurturing love that her little soul desires in me.
I started the last load of laundry, dimmed the lights, and almost tripped over these stools.
Two stools, where at least three little people had clamored and climbed the whole time I made dinner.
They just want to be near me.
All the time.
Me, the mom who’s undone because the wrong flowers happen to be spreading pollen. They find home in me.
That’s amazing. That’s grace. That’s me being a broken, earthen vessel, and God being more than enough.