"I wish we had a nanny" my nine-year-old sullenly mumbled under her breath. This remark came after a morning of all mornings. One where toddler meltdowns erupted like lava around every corner. A morning where the teething baby woke up 10 minutes into her nap, stopping my workout, as she refused to go back to sleep. A morning where I had neglected to wake up early and get in my time with Lord and we were out of coffee. A morning where smears of mud adorned my floors, as the children carried buckets of muddy water right through the living room.
"I wish we had a nanny" might have just been the utterings of a child pouting about the "no mud in the house" rule, but to me, after a morning little more strength and peace out of my already tired soul, it was the emptying of the final bit of strength left inside me. “I wish we had a nanny” felt more like “I wish we had another mom. One who was enough.” Biting my bottom lip, I excused myself from the room, raced to the bathroom, and it was there that I let out the most unraveled, woeful version of myself in a pity-party offering to the Lord. “I’m trying so hard, but I’m just not enough!” I said out loud, as tears puddled at my feet and I ungracefully wiped my nose on my sleeve. I was broken. I was tired. I was empty. After pulling myself together and checking my cheeks for mascara streaks, I walked into the kitchen and turned on some worship music. I was completely aware of the fact that my heart was in need of some spiritual nutrition and there was only one way to get it. So I leaned back on the kitchen counter, raised my hands in full surrender, closed my eyes, and quickly breathed, “I need you Lord. Meet me here.” In the following moments I felt a refreshing. I felt peace. I felt joy again. In the stillness of the moment I felt him speak. “Do you know why I love your emptiness? Because it’s when you’re truly empty that you’re able to experience my fullness.” Just. Like. That. Completely undone. Wrapped in the arms of my father who always has what I’m lacking in. The father who never gets irritated with my short-comings. The father who pursues my heart. You and I are the same, precious mama. We fall short and we grow weary. We try hard to be enough and do enough in our own strengths. And then we turn into a snotty, blubbery mess when we realize this mothering thing is going to take more than what we are able to give. That’s ok. In fact, that’s a sign of health. When we’re able to admit our emptiness, our shortcomings, and our need for Jesus, it delights him. He wants to be our source and strength, but he will never force his way in. He instead waits gently for the tired, humble heart to turn towards him and offer an invitation. Will you let him be your fullness today?
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