My middle baby turned three today. Three.
Last night, I sat on her bed watching her dream. I have been distracted planning Strawberry Shortcake parties, frosting cupcakes, and collecting endless wads of birthday wrapping paper. I somehow forgot that these were the last precious days of her two-ness. So, in honor of my baby getting bigger, I’m sharing a poem I wrote for my biggest baby, the one who made me a momma.
May the Lord bless you with newly pointed
crayons, a couple messy monsters hiding below your
I needed this reminder from #shereadstruth this morning. Mondays. Daddy is back to work, a week of dinner prep, sibling refereeing, and laundry is stretched out before us mommas. Remember, we will fall short, but He won’t.
Since adding a third arrow to our quiver, I am still trying to establish a new morning routine, one in which I am showered and dressed (in non-spandex pants), and have had some time in the Word. It is hard. It is hard to make myself get out of bed one second earlier than necessary (necessary is when I hear Beckett’s squawks). So, it wasn’t part of an organized Bible study, like I typically enjoy, or a reading plan this morning when I opened my Bible app while nursing Beckett and read from Romans 12,
I APPEAL to you therefore, brethren, and beg of you in view of [all] the mercies of God, to make a decisive dedication of your bodies [presenting all your members and faculties] as a living sacrifice, holy (devoted, consecrated) and well pleasing to God, which is your reasonable (rational, intelligent) service and spiritual worship. (Romans 12:1 AMP).
“Isn’t that beautiful?”, I whispered in the hushed nursery with my sweet smelling son curled up on my lap. “That’s what being a mom is, isn’t it, Lord? It’s me offering my entire self, decidedly, to my children as an act of worship to the One who offered it all for me. And, yes, it is my rational and reasonable service to God. In light of all He has done for me, it’s such a little sacrifice, it’s reasonable.”
And then the nursery’s door flung open in the hand of my almost six year old–flinging with it the hush of the morning.