Before the house fully woke up, before the questions and snacks and little feet hitting the floor, I carried my unrest outside like a basket too heavy for one arm.
Motherhood with small children has a way of thinning you out.
The broken sleep.
The constant touching.
The noise.
The invisible labor of remembering everything for everyone.
You can wake up exhausted before the day has even asked anything of you.
And this morning, instead of handing my weariness to my husband, a friend, or the internet, I handed it to God first.
I watered the garden while praying in broken sentences.
I walked in the morning sun with tired eyes and a heavy heart.
No polished words. No performance. Just honesty.
I think mothers forget this sometimes:
God does not only meet us in deep study and disciplined devotion.
He meets us in survival.
In fatigue.
In the woman standing barefoot in yesterday’s sweatshirt trying not to fall apart before breakfast.
The burdens themselves are still here.
The laundry still waits.
The children will still need me all day long.
But something shifted this morning.
I’m not carrying it alone now.
And for a tired mother, sometimes that is enough grace to make it through the day.
B🤍
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