entry eleven

There’s the back spasms. Those are followed by the Braxton Hicks contractions. And just the aches all over. The muscles sore and the flesh weary and all tired. It’s the mantra of my day, this exhaustion. And it’s exhausting.

Patience scraped thin. Too thin. Soul dry and thirsty and irritability halts joy. Everything that calls to me- the needs of my house. They aren’t small, they’re real. Very real. Like putting foods in bellies of children, real- and the brain doesn’t work quite right. Cognition. It’s not there.

I am drowning in this sea of in-cohesive thought, flailing and fighting the stresses of my own making. And why? What is my hope at the end of it all?

The voices of this world. Of my family. Of friends. Of strangers. Of self. That constant telling of judgement. Of not enough. Of short comings and failings and all the things I haven’t gotten right… not yet at least. The “too young’s,” “financially unstable’s,” “maritally not there yet’s,” and it continues.

Every person as of late seems to have an opinion on the most intimiate details of my life. And whatsmore they vocalize these thoughts in such a way as to make me feel shame and insufficient. Why must concern be shown as criticism? And why do I linger so on these statements? Why welcome them into the depths of my being and allow the eating at my heart until I am all consumed bitter?

I am child of this world and yet not of this world. But I let the world’s view of me define me and how is that good? I am child of God seeking approval and worth in a world that was not made to give me such things.

And He gifts me grace. Crazy grace.

And do I see it?

Am I constant emptying to fill?

baby-girl all twirling to Peppermint Twist. 

holding my firstborn in my lap- head resting all content on my chest. 

beads of colors. 

bouquet of sunflowers sitting bright on table in morning light. 

rays of sunlight on freshly made bed. 

melting collapse on new linens. 


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