Thursday, June 5, 2014


There's been a lot of hustling around here lately.

And sometimes as a mom, the one who is suppose to make the world make sense, the one who is the kisser of boo-boos and the wiper of tears, the one who sings them to sleep, and wakes them with mango juice and fresh eggs, the one who determines the fate of desserts and night time rituals, it is unbearable to watch my kids hustle for their worthiness.

And yet even in my prideful reality of believing that I could fix it, if just...
I realize that I am hustling too.
It's not my job to heal my kids.
It's not my job to protect them.
It's not my job to try and make-up for the losses they've endured.
I can't hustle hard enough, or fast enough, or long enough.

I just can't.

And it's so offensive to me.
Because if I could, I would.
I would make up for everything that they've lost.
I would wipe away the hurt and pain.
I would erase rejection from their souls.

Because hustling is no way to live.
Hustling is exhausting.
Hustling is ugly.
Hustling is consuming.

As a mom to kids from the hard places, this is the hardest part. Injecting worthiness and hope into children whose stories have so far told them the opposite.
I've mentioned here before that shifting foundations is slow and tedious work. And I just have to keep reminding myself of this.

I am not at all hope-less.
I am not at all defeated.
But I have been hustling.
Their stories are now my stories.
And I need to find my path in them.
Not stand outside their stories and hustle to help them find their worthiness.
But stand with them, in their pain, and remember, it is our story now.
And God promises to complete the story.

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