God made a mistake.
He did, really.
When he made me a mother to four children he must have been experiencing an off day.
To believe I am capable of mothering their souls for an eternal purpose seems crazy to me.
But, I’m not God.
I bet you’re surprised to read that.
No, I’m just a woman who feels like she gets it wrong most days. I feel inadequate and out-of-place.
The chest-deep uncharted water I find myself in chills to the bone.
I don’t have the strength to answer one more question about why Batman is played by so many different people or why a boy on the bus picks his nose. I can’t muster up the courage to tell my children why children die or how people get away with doing bad things.
Half my children don’t eat the dinners I make. One complains about the meat being too spicy, the other says his teeth hurt. They asked to be dismissed from the table and I gently wave them away.
At least I got 50%, right?!
I begin to clean the kitchen and realize my heart is wrecked. I lean over the kitchen sink, elbow-deep in suds, desperately missing my husband. We hardly see one another, and sometimes it feels like I don’t really know him…and he doesn’t know me.
But, do we really know anyone?
The only being who knows us better than we know ourselves is Him.
God knitted each of us in secret before our mothers knew we were inside their bellies. He whispered our names into existence before there was a sliver of light created. The God who causes mountains to dance in His presence and oceans to rage is the same God who made me a mother.
He knows when I question Him, and He’s okay with it.
God knows who I am, my insecurities, my strengths, and my need to be loved.
The weaknesses that swim to the surface are ones He’s already dealt with on the cross.
With a heart full of concerns and questions I trust He knows why my babies are mine. I believe God has a purpose for my walk through motherhood, and plan bigger than I can imagine.
That’s where I hang my hope, on His everlasting love.
He’s a good, good Father.