At this point in time it's been 11 years since I tripped and staggered in my first attempts at unraveling the great and winding mystery of motherhood. Eleven years since my first baby boy laid in my arms so sweetly-- a joy, an adventure, a mystery-- swaddled in tiny blankets. Just a girl myself, I was two weeks shy of turning 18 without a clue in the world and buckets of self doubt. I had no idea the true weight of that tiny eight pound blessing.
Since that time, three more tiny adventures have set up camp within the walls of our hearts. And we have been stretched beyond imagining. Forced to look outside of ourselves and grow up for the children's sake. Parenthood is an ever pressing refinery, chipping away at the self-absorbed stone of a sinner's heart and replacing it with pliable clay.
As I look into the faces of each of my boys, really look, that young girl inside me wonders in awe at how beautifully intricate and different they are. Each his own lit flame, burning for unique and divinely crafted reasons. Each of them a heaping helping of a portion I do not deserve.
These growing adventures I call my sons are the lyrics of my mom song, the tune of which the Maestro orchestrated long before time began. Alongside their daddy, I take up arms to train them through the winding and weaving of the ordinary. Alongside Jesus we pray to fill their cups and keep their flames ablaze.
Their raising up into manhood is our worthy calling.