Last week I hid under Sophie's bed. Just curled up, cheek pressed against the dusty-smelling carpet, eyes screwed tight. Lucy was in her crib, screaming. I was attempting, for the kajillionth millionth time, to locate some precious toy that had been misplaced. My 4-year-olds were whining at me, and then at each other, and then yelling. It had been a long day, full of screaming and whining and yelling. Under the bed seemed like a good place to stay for a while.
Those kinds of days are why motherhood is so good for my soul. Regardless of whether or not I'm fooling anyone else, there is no fooling myself when I'm stuffed under a bed - I'm no good on my own. I'm not wise enough, patient enough, creative enough, fill-in-the-blank enough. On days like this, when I reach the end of myself before the demands have even begun to be met, I am right where I'm supposed to be - humble. Humbled. Reliant on Him who made me, who knows me, who loves me. And, if I can get there, grateful. For mercy and second chances, apologies and snuggles and those little hands that tug, tug, tug at me.
Because when I get past the screaming and the whining and the yelling, I am reminded something about each of these precious days.
They are my dreams coming true.
A man that I am crazy about, a home teeming with children and noise and mess and living. God's perfect love, manifest in my imperfect, exceedingly blessed life.
