There is a quiet place where only she and I can go.
Somewhere in-between my weakest and worn out places.
When illness wins and sleep sets in and pain seems to steal who I’m meant to be.
Until I feel her little nose pressed close to mine and her little voice stirs me with a quiet cadence of, “Mama, I need to snuggle you.”
She never waits for a yes.
She simply finds her way onto the bed, wraps herself in her little pink blanket and finds the crook that is found somewhere between my arm and my chest, settling in as if it were made just for her.
It is in this moment, in this exhale, I always feel mom enough.
She doesn’t need my perfect. She doesn’t need my plans. She doesn’t need my million things that are left undone.
She only needs me.
Me in my worn-out. Me in my disheveled. Me in my broken.
Just. Me.
Maybe I have grown to love this place out of its simplicity. Or maybe I yearn for its gentleness against the brash of a bad day. Or maybe I have come to love it because in her eyes I see Jesus so clearly.
In a place where only He and I can go.
Somewhere in-between my weakest and worn out places.
Moving softly towards me when illness wins and sleep sets in and pain seems to steal who I’m meant to be.
Until I feel His love rain gently down---in the grace of my girl and her little pink blanket or in the mercy of a new morning or in the peace that reigns when chaos abounds---all with a quiet cadence of, “I’m here.”
He never waits for an invitation.
He simply finds His way into the places I so often hide, offering me the safety of His arms and a refuge that feels as if it were made just for me.
It is in that moment, in that exhale, that He is enough.
I don’t need my perfect. I don’t need my plans. I don’t need my million things undone.
I just need Him.
In my worn out and my rested. In my put-together and my disheveled. In my mended and my broken. And in my everything in-between.
I love Him and He loves me and that’s enough.