the morning seven

I’m not ready. Sitting on the sofa in my darkened quiet, I hear the rumble overhead of drawers opening and slamming shut. My watch says it’s barely seven. Footsteps stumble out of rooms, heavy down the stairs, and I am not ready. 

So many words. Strong opinions. Huffy breaths. Five little sinners waking up in a shared space to a tired mama mainlining coffee and Jesus.

Mid-August has us tired, depleted. I’m running on fumes. All day long, I’m the leader of this pack of kids, and my attitude doesn’t always head us in the right direction. My words, harsh. My opinions, strong. My exhale, loud.

emmie too early

This mama-mantra runs through my brain:
His mercies are new every morning. In my weakness, he is strong. Grace covers my sin. He is faithful to complete the good work he began in me. I’m not alone or forsaken. He is the lifter of my head.

Give me this day my daily bread. Forgive me my debts. Come Lord Jesus and create in me a clean heart. May I mom-walk in a manner worthy of the gospel. Help me fix my eyes on you the author and perfecter of my faith. 

You are enough. 

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