Awake at dawn, spit-up stained pajamas.
Cracked, aching breasts, eyes rimmed black with sleep.
Did I choose the better thing?

A sharp cry, magical when first expressed, now primordial screech. Ears ringing, head fuzzy, temper rising.
Did I choose the better thing?

Excrement in excess, diaper rashes and soiled onesies. Teeth piercing gums, inconsolable drooling babe. Fevers and vomit, sniffles and coughs on repeat. Sticky syringes force-feed wellness into reluctant mouths.
Did I choose the better thing?

Laundry folding into mountains, meals half-eaten, time carved into crumbs.
Hands that tremble with coffee and worry, knees that bend to wipe a spill.
Did I choose the better thing?

Pretty body worn postpartum, sag and ache where tautness was. This God-given, life-giving body serves a different purpose now: food bank, jungle gym, a cradle for drooping heads.
Did I choose the better thing?

Midnight prayers whispered over tiny chests,
Psalm hummed between lullabies, breath warm on a brow.
Promises folded into the margins of my Bible like slips of paper, hope kept close.
Did I choose the better thing?

Flour on fingers, fingerprints on scripture,
a sticky hand reaching for mine in the checkout line.
There is a sermon in the letting go and the picking up, in patience that learns to wait like Abraham, trusting the promise.
Did I choose the better thing?

Rage softens into mercy when I recall the Cross:
He stooped, He served, He bore much more than I will be asked.
To cradle a life is to echo that humble love,
to lose myself and discover a multiplied soul.
Did I choose the better thing?

School projects, broken hearts mended with band-aids and prayer, first failures, first mercies, lessons in forgiveness at the kitchen table. I teach them gratitude from a tired, grateful heart,
and in teaching, I am taught, my faith, shaped by daily, ordinary grace, my pride humbled by remembering how much like my children I am before Him.
Did I choose the better thing?

There are mornings gilded with small triumphs:
a laugh like sunlight, a hand curled in sleep around my finger.
I see God in the ordinary, scraped knees, shared bread, whispered thanks,
and the rough edges of sacrifice soften into something holy.
Did I choose the better thing?

When they run ahead toward tomorrow, shadows long and brave,
I remember the promise: children are a heritage, a blessing to steward.
Love poured out becomes a river that carves valleys and brings life to dry places.
Not because it is easy, but because it is holy.
Yes. I chose the better thing.

Happy Mother’s Day

Until next time, salutations and selah