Delayed Obedience Is Disobedience

“Does the Lord delight in burnt offerings and sacrifices

    as much as in obeying the Lord?

To obey is better than sacrifice,

    and to heed is better than the fat of rams.”

– 1 Samuel 15:22

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A pile of odds and ends, the leavings of the day, sit at the base of our stairs like a pile of rubble after a domestic avalanche of orphaned shoes, Hot Wheels, and broken pieces of chalk. This is the “go back” pile: the pile of items designated to be returned upstairs after I have whisked them off the floor in a speed clean session inspired by the Tasmanian Devil. 

The pile sits silently mocking me as I give it a good, long stare. This is the pile my daughter is assigned to rehome at the end of every day. At eight, she is fairly dependable, normally thrives on the thrill of completing her chores checklist, and in her more generous moments, even does extra chores just to make me smile. In fact, today is one of those days. She has cleared the toys off the living room floor, fluffed the couch pillows, and folded laundry – all unbidden. The one thing she hasn’t done is clear the pile from the bottom of the stairs. 

The one thing I asked her to do. 

And I can’t even be frustrated because when I think to myself, “She did everything except what I asked her to do,” somewhere in the back of my mind is a niggling voice that whispers, 

Just like you.

It’s not an angry voice. It’s merely stating a fact, one I know at this moment to be true. 

I am going to deviate from my norm here and share something personal, and that’s actually not a joke, because although I am always sharing personal stories in these reflections, they are always meant to point the listener to God. They are stories about me, but they aren’t really about me. 

This little insight I’m about to share is more narrowly directed at me, but I want to share with you because some of you might be joining us for the first time as listeners from my other podcast and Substack newsletter, Brave New Us, which I recently wrapped production on despite it finally gaining traction after four years of stop-and-go labor. Why leave now, after 16,000 YouTube views, 13,000 podcast downloads, and 4,000 substack subscribers. Why abandon ship?

I might be a bit dense, but began to sense that this was one of the many chores God did not ask me to do. 

It was beautiful. It was important. It feels unfinished and it is honestly still a project I’d like to pick and continue – one day. 

But that pile on the stairs hit me like a ton of bricks. 

I had a queue of reflections in my mind that was two years long. For two years, I had been collecting the stories for this podcast for someday. In the meantime, I busied myself freelance writing, drafting book proposals, expanding my newsletter offerings, and taking the podcast to YouTube. 

Someone had once told me that the bioethics “stuff” was like my job, and the Mama Prays stuff was like my hobby. And somewhere in there, I started to believe that, and to behave accordingly. I had forgotten the burning in my heart when I read the words of John Paul II: 

“Do you think that there can be anything greater than to bring Jesus to people and people to Jesus?” 

And on the one hand, that is the call of every Christian. In a particular way, that is the call of mothers (and fathers for that matter), for the children each of us are given. But when I read those words, I felt a tug on my heart to share the stories I’d been hoarding in my head since one very trying day at Mass. 

It was not the day I spoke about two episodes ago –  we have a lot of trying days at Mass. 

No, this was the day when my 2-year-old decided to make a break for it in response to his own personal altar call. The entire assembly gasped as my son ran the length of the right side of the church up the wheelchair ramp to the elevated stage on which sat the altar. I walked as swiftly as I could with a baby strapped to my chest to head him off before he got to where he could do some real damage. If this was a more artsy parish, his antics might have passed for a skit, because the gospel that day was - I kid you not - the parable of the lost son. 

It doesn’t end there. Upon retrieving my son from his mad dash up the aisle, I yanked him outside for some cool down time. For me.

Now, he is what some parents affectionately call a “runner,” and has no sense of anxiety about being far from us. We have since procured a tracking device that he wears around his wrist to keep tabs on our little runaway, but that day, we were just one the verge of discovering the need. 

I let him walk a bit ahead of me on the path outside of the church. He took these gains as a sign to run faster and farther, and my heart stopped when he rounded the corner nearest the street. I ran full-on to catch up, but by the time I made it around the corner, he was out of sight. I will spare you the terror of the moments that followed; I eventually found him hiding on a bench in an alcove outside the adoration chapel. 

And as I walked back to my pew after receiving communion that day, I felt that tug on my heart. This was what I was supposed to do: share these stories with you, share the ways God is touching my heart through my children. How I lost my son on the parable of the Lost Son. I knew my calling. 

And so naturally, I folded the laundry and fluffed the pillows. 

Of course, we all do this at times. A thing doesn’t have to be wrong for it to be sinful – as long as it's done at the wrong time, in the wrong way, in the wrong amount, with the wrong person, etc. Who hasn’t scrolled social media when you should have been doing something else? Who hasn’t procrastinated or left something important undone? 

And this is where I was getting it wrong. Because it isn’t just choosing the thousand things you weren’t asked to do over your duty that’s wrong. It’s that saying “Not right now” isn’t an appropriate response to God. Just as I can delay my children’s requests, but they don’t have the authority to choose when they carry out their duties (unless I allow it), so do we as children of God have the obligation to respond to his call when we hear it. 

And Jesus actually said that. When he called some men to be his disciples, we know that the Apostles dropped what they were doing and followed him. But others made excuses to delay: first, let me bury my father. First, let me say goodbye to my family. And these are good things to do. But what Jesus says, “Let the dead bury their own dead, but as for you, go and proclaim the kingdom..no one who puts a hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom.” (Luke 9:57-62). 

Delayed obedience is disobedience. To be clear, there are mitigating circumstances. In my case, there was a lot going on that made things murky and difficult to discern. But that still doesn’t negate the fact that when Jesus calls, the call is for right now. Delayed obedience is disobedience. 

That is tough news for me, but I am here now, ready to cling to the parable about the workers who entered the vineyard late, but still received the same reward (Matt 20:1-16), and the one about the son who told his father he wouldn’t work, but then turned around and did his father’s will (Matt 21:28-31). 

Even now, it might be the case that I am still not fully following Jesus’s call for me. I do not know for certain, and if I did know for certain, there would be room for faith. 

So to close, I will share with you one of my favorite prayers, particularly for times like these. It is a prayer by Thomas Merton: 

My Lord God,
I have no idea where I am going.
I do not see the road ahead of me.
I cannot know for certain where it will end.
nor do I really know myself,
and the fact that I think I am following your will
does not mean that I am actually doing so.
But I believe that the desire to please you
does in fact please you.
And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing.
I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire.

And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road,

though I may know nothing about it.
Therefore will I trust you always though
I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death.

I will not fear, for you are ever with me,
and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.

Amen

Your Motherhood Matters

“And how has it happened to me, that the mother of my Lord would come to me? For behold, when the sound of your greeting reached my ears, the baby leaped in my womb for joy.”

– Luke 1:43-45

“Then the dragon was enraged at the woman and went off to wage war against the rest of her offspring—those who keep God’s commands and hold fast their testimony about Jesus.”

– Revelations 12:17

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“Mom, how big am I?” my son bounces on his heels, eagerly awaiting my answer.

“What do you mean, honey?” I ask. I am slow to look up from my reading, so I miss his gesture towards the wall. 

“I mean, how much do I weigh?” he asks. 

“We’ll have to go upstairs and see,” I reply, thinking of the digital scale in my bathroom. 

“NO!” he replies with uncharacteristic force for my usually mellow 5-year-old. “You know,” he says with a meaningful look, and this time I follow where he is pointing. 

He wants to know how much he weighs, according to the measure on the wall, where on each of their birthdays, we make little pencil marks to show how tall our children are, so that they can see how much they’ve grown each year. 

He’s asking how much he weighs, but that isn’t really what he means. 

One question that people are asking all over the internet these days has to do with the value of motherhood, thanks to a certain viral speech on a college campus somewhere in the middle of our country.

The reflection I have for you today is not a hot take on the merits or faults of that speech. This isn’t going to be a relative weighing of the value of stay at home motherhood or the permissibility of mothers pursuing paid work or passions outside the home. 

This is simply a reminder from one mother to another, on the Feast of the Visitation, that your motherhood matters. 

Because one thing that speech got right is that motherhood, in the last several decades, is under attack. We hear in Revelations that the dragon is enraged at the woman – that is, Mary - and is waging war against her offspring. We know that women have been a central battleground over the last century. We know these wounds. We know the political talking points. 

We know the voice that lurks in the darkness and whispers words that weigh on us, filling us with guilt and despair – guilt for choosing motherhood and, or guilt for not contributing enough to the world. It wants to wreck us, whichever choice we make, and we lash out and scapegoat whoever has chosen differently than ourselves. We know it all. 

But do we know just how important our motherhood is? 

It’s easy to forget, whether you’ve left a career full of accolades or are still accruing those accomplishments. Either way, the daily tasks of motherhood are mundane, thankless, unfulfilling. 

We do dishes. We prepare meals. We fold laundry. We sweep up crumbs. And whether we bake sourdough from scratch or slap some Wonderbread on the table, there really isn’t a lot of glamor in this job description.  

Sure, we can coordinate calendars with the skill of an executive assistant and plan perfectly proportioned meals to nourish our children. We become experts in removing blood stains, toy rotations, and cutting off crusts. Some of us can even fold a fitted sheet. Motherhood is challenging, and forces us to develop skills we feel are beyond us. I’m still working on those fitted sheets. 

Like I said, the tasks that make up our everyday are not glamorous. When I left work to stay home with our kids, my husband would come home every day and ask me one dreaded question: “What did you do today?” 

I hated answering that question. When I was working, that question might have any number of interesting answers. I might have had a meaningful conversation with a student or gotten some nice comment from my boss. I might have gone toe to toe with a parent or come up with a brilliant idea of how to teach a difficult concept. 

As a stay at home mom to two littles, my answers weren’t worth repeating. I got that jam out of the couch. I changed out of clothes covered in spit up. We played with Barbies while the baby inched his way across the carpet. 

My frustration with that question and our inability to appreciate the value of motherhood have the same problem as my son wanting to weigh himself by the marks on the wall: they use the wrong measure. 

My son won’t learn his weight from the wall, and we will never understand the meaning of motherhood when we try to account for it by any of the world’s measures. Not productivity. Not economics. Not statistics on good outcomes for mothers who adhered to any particular type of work related performance or abstinence. 

The immeasurable and intangible meaning of motherhood cannot be captured by a checklist. 

Mothering children is a divinely-appointed vocation, one in which the souls of our children have been entrusted to us to raise. The effects of motherhood are not inconsequential, but have eternal significance that few employment opportunities can hope to provide. 

Cardinal Josef Mindzety phrases it like this: 

“The most important person on earth is a mother. She cannot claim the honor of having built Notre Dame Cathedral. She need not. She has built something more magnificent than any cathedral – a dwelling for an immortal soul, the tiny perfection of her baby’s body. . . The angels have not been blessed with such a grace. They cannot share in God’s creative miracle to bring new saints to Heaven. Only a human mother can. Mothers are closer to God the Creator than any other creature; God joins forces with mothers in performing this act of creation… What on God’s good earth is more glorious than this: to be a mother?”

And if you don’t believe the good cardinal, ask yourself who has been the most important woman in all of history. Who is the most powerful? The most influential? Whose work during her earthly days has not only moved our world, but ripples into eternity? 

The answer, of course, is the woman God crowned Queen of Heaven and Earth, his mother. 

And yet if we reflect on Mary’s daily tasks, we will find that they were not much different than our own – even if she did not yet have to contend with fitted sheets. She washed dishes. She prepared meals. She folded laundry, swept up crumbs, and made bread.

And as the mother of God, she even made the bread that comes down from Heaven. Her days were filled with snuggles and storytelling. She taught him to pray and introduced him to the community. 

Mary practiced by example what her son would later advise: “If you wish to become great, you must become the servant of all,” (Matt. 20:26). 

The greatest Woman on earth spent her days cooking meals for her husband and washing her son’s clothing. Why should we desire anything different? 

God has given us souls to steward, and no measure on earth can tell us what that is worth. 

When people say you are “just a mom,” turn the other cheek. Don't cast your pearls before swine. Those who would have us believe our time with our children is worth less than our paycheck, or who see hopping off the ladder as a death wish rather than a great leap of faith will spend their lives chasing dust and ashes. 

When they accuse us of wasting our potential, let us not take offense. Thomas Merton said only the false self is ever offended. We should look on those who see motherhood as a pitstop or an impediment to what really matters with the gaze of Jesus who looked upon the lost with hesed, sometimes translated as pity, loving kindness, or mercy. They are sheep without a shepherd. 

It is our job to be salt and light. Beggars showing the other beggars where to find food. 

Motherhood is littleness. Motherhood is servanthood. And motherhood is monumental – by every measure that matters.

When Bringing Littles to Mass Seems Pointless

People were bringing little children to Jesus for him to place his hands on them, but the disciples rebuked them. When Jesus saw this, he was indignant.

He said to them, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these. Truly I tell you, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it.”

And he took the children in his arms, placed his hands on them and blessed them.

— Mark 10:13-16

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One of the first blog posts I ever wrote was an earnest, idealistic piece on the importance of bringing our children to Mass. Several years and four kids later, those sentiments are as obsolete as that first blog. My own words pop into my head and my stomach churns — bloated from years of weekly humble pie.

Our trip to Mass today is no different than any other Sunday. We rush into the car, stopping halfway out the drive to rush back inside in search of someone’s lost shoe. Despite our best efforts, on on-time buffer window shrinks, and we silently and anxiously pray that we’ll make it into the pews before the procession beings.

What is the point? I ask myself. The question has become almost a ritual. What is the point of subjecting ourselves to this weekly hour of humiliation in which we will be lucky to pray a passing song lyric through the din of mediating sibling disputes in hushed whispers as my husband and I take turns escorting out the naughtiest child outside? The church may as well have revolving doors for all the time we’ve spent inside it. I hadn’t heard a homily in years.

What is the point?

As I lean my head against the cool glass of the car window, steeling myself for the hour of misery that surely awaits, no exterior sign prepares me for the particulars of what’s to come.

As we pull up to the Cathedral, shivers of dread run up my spine despite the glaring heat from the summer sun. We hike up the grand concrete staircase that beckons all to enter in and yank on the brass door handles, to no avail. The doors are locked.

Mentally chastising myself for forgetting that Mass is being held in the adjacent gym during Cathedral renovations, I relinquish the final glimmers of false hope of being on time. Still huffing from the trek up the stairs, we begin our descent down the other side. Sweat trickles down my back, soaking into the thin but tightly-wrapped soft pink fabric of the baby wrap in which my newborn is nestled snuggly, blissfully ignorant of her role as my personal heat-generator.

The gym doors swing open with a bang and my heart drops as I realize that not only have we missed the procession, but the gym has been set up for Mass facing the side we just entered. We slink past the hundreds of chairs, heads hung low, trying to avoid the gaze of their occupants, slowly realizing that all the chairs have been filled.

Mass continues on behind us. Not that we can hear it over the creaking of the ancient wooden bleachers beneath our feet, which have been built in such a way that one must climb to the very last row — the one nearest the ceiling — to enter them. The second we take our seats in the nosebleeds, our oldest announces that she needs to go to the potty. My husbands creaks his way right back down the stairs with our oldest and toddler in tow, leaving me with our newborn and usually mild-mannered son to manage.

Today, he shows no signs of manners, mild or otherwise.

When he finally notices that Dad is off to do far more interesting things than stare at the roof of the world’s tallest gym, he immediately recognizes the unfairness of the moment and demands to be given his rights to go along. He lunges to make his escape, and I tighten my grip on his arm as I watch my husband disappear through the gym doors, oblivious to the struggle we’re having in the rafters.

Incensed by the grave injustice he endures at my hands, my 4-year-old deploys his most effective weapon, shrieking at the top of his lungs, “You’re saying a BAD WORD to me!”

Clearly, something has been lost in translation. The only “bad” word I have used is “no” (in this conversation anyway), and yet his repeated refrain reverberates from the rafters for the whole assembly to hear that I have been swearing at my child during Mass.

Did I mention that we are the only family that has been exiled to sky-high bleacher seating, so it is abundantly clear just which mother is allegedly spouting profanity at her young son?

This might be my deadliest dose of humble pie to date.

Eventually my husband returns, oblivious to the mascara that streaks down my face, hidden beneath my veil, pulled close to mask my shame.

Mass goes on, and I go through the motions numb and unaware, save the ebb and flow of behavioral disasters breaking over me, heedless of the way their constant breaking has worn me away over the years.

When it is time for communion, my merry band of littles ones stomp down the stairs creating a cacophony that is impossibly thunderous for such tiny feet.

What is the point? I sigh, despondent. Someone somewhere must have mistaken my inward groanings for a prayer, because as we round the corner to come up the center aisle, I catch sight of my little girl’s hand enclosed in my own, and the haze of my despair lifts, giving way to the brightness of a new truth dawning inside me.

This is the point. Here in this stuffy gym, our Lord and Savior waits to greet us at the end of this aisle. And as we walk hand in hand towards our Lord, I see that this moment is an image of our lives together.

It is my divinely-appointed vocation to lead these souls to Jesus. That is why we suffer the torment of bringing the wiggly and whiny to church every week — so that they can come to know and love their Maker.

And on the really good days, I see the fruits of our labor blossoming through spontaneous prayer, sketches of Sacred Heart, playing Mass together, concern for the poor, a tiny act of virtue in love for a sibling.

But in this moment I see something new: it goes both ways.

Not only do I lead my little girl up the aisle; she is bringing me to Jesus.

She brings me to Jesus in a hundred different ways every day. She brings me to Jesus in sheer gratitude for her existence, when I pray for her, when her little faith shines forth in thousands of brilliant questions all my high school students in eight years never thought to ask.

Even more than that, she brings me to Jesus when she brings me to my knees. It’s the tough moments, all these little humiliations, the times in my motherhood when I suffer the refining fire of my own insufficiency. Whatever leads me deeper into the mystery of the limitless love of the Father covering all my faults and failings leads me into the freedom of my dependence on Him.

I can surrender to these humiliations happily, reveling in the reminder that I am never truly in control.

Maybe someday I’ll even surrender my desire for that control.

For now, we walk, hand in hand, urging each other along as divinely-appointed companions on this long, slow road to Jesus.

My husband snapped this candid shot of my and my littles on that creaky staircase in the stuffy gym on that stifling summer day, basking in the glow of relief after surviving yet another Mass with our zoo in tow.

10 Ways to Pray When You Are Too Busy to Pray

There is no such thing as “too busy to pray.” I know that life can be crazy, and there is real value in knowing our limits and being gentle with ourselves. This is not one of those posts. If you need one of those posts, read THIS instead. This is a tough love post, a “come to Jesus” post (literally!). This is an “I love you just the way you are but too much to let you stay that way” post. I know I need this list, and I think you do too.

For your kick-in-the-pants list of ways to prioritize prayer, read on.  

• Pray first thing in the morning. If you make it the first thing you do every morning, you won’t ever run out of time.  
  
  

• Pick a Scripture verse that inspires you. Write it on a post-it (or print it out) and put it on the wall in front of your toilet. Seriously. You spend several quality minutes sitting here in quiet each day. Make them count. Change the verse each time you clean your toilet.  
  
  

• Take a social-media hiatus. Delete the apps from your phone. Every time you have the impulse to scroll, offer a prayer instead. Finally, a way to honor St. Paul’s call to “pray continually!” 
  
  

• Use recorded prayers. Whether you have a long commute or spend time at the sink doing dishes each day, you can pray along with a recorded Rosary or Divine Mercy Chaplet as you go about tasks that do not require your mental attention. Check out the Family Rosary app, Together We Pray, for a recorded Rosary. It's free for iOS and Android.
  
  

• Listen to worship music. Set aside some time to create a playlist of songs that speak to you (or use one that’s already been curated on Spotify. Here’s a great one by Blessed Is She).  
  
  

• Make a date with Jesus. Look up daily Mass, Confession, or Adoration times and pencil something into your calendar. You can’t sustain a romance with someone you never see. 
  
  

• As you work, clean, or make a meal, offer a prayer of gratitude for the person who will benefit.  
  
  

• Before turning on Netflix, take 20 minutes to journal, read Scripture, or relax with a good book. Pick something that will refresh you rather than merely helping you zone out.  
  
  

• When you feel frustrated with someone, make a conscious effort to see and love Jesus in that person. If you are like me, this will provide you with ample prayer opportunities throughout your day. 
  
  

• At the end of the day, review it with an examination of conscience like this one from IgnatianSpirituality.com or this one, shared by Loyola Press. Leave yourself a note on your pillow so you don’t forget. Ask God to help you see where He showed up, and how you missed opportunities. Sit in gratitude. Ask for help to do better next time.  

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Will You Just Hold Still?

Our youngest son was the quietest in the womb. “Have you felt the baby move today?” my nurses would ask at our prenatal appointments. “No,” I’d reply, “But that’s not unusual for him.”

That stillness did not last. 

Our third baby is so wiggly that at times, he feels impossible to hold. He loves to “jump” on your lap as he holds tight to your fingers. On a three hour flight, my lap baby refused to nap serenely in our Ergo carrier as our others had. No, he wanted to be out and ready for action. 

He started crawling at five months and pulling to stand at six. Now, you can find him happily cruising the furniture in our living room.

No, wait — he’s up the step and halfway down the hall. 

Having an on-the-go baby has its benefits. Unlike our first daughter who cried even in arms, and our middle kid who was content as long as he was being held, this little guy is happy to explore on his own. He’ll even play contently in his crib when he wakes from a nap (which is lovely except when he wakes needing to be changed and I find his patience is actually preoccupation; he has been finger-painting in his own banana yellow poop).  

Our real challenge comes during diaper and wardrobe changes. Have you ever struggled to pull fitted footie pajamas onto a reluctant cat? No need. You can come over and try to dress Noah.

He pushes. He pulls. One foot in and he pulls the other out. He protests laying on his back by immediately flipping onto his stomach and he’s off, wiggling for freedom at the end of the changing pad. The fall to the floor does not daunt him. It’s just one more daredevil stunt to tackle, and he’s very curious to know what going over the edge would feel like. 

“Would you just hold still?” I find myself asking aloud. There is something about this moment of my son’s bare body wriggling in my hands as he yanks back an arm, flips to his tummy and lunges for the edge a third time. A little piece of grace, maybe.

And suddenly, that question isn’t for my son anymore.

It is a question for me. 

“Will you just hold still?”

Noah’s only quiet time is when he is nursing. He waits until he is starving to let loose a banshee-like wail, and once on my chest, hunts frantically mouth-first like a truffle pig rooting out its prize. He latches, and instantly his body is still and his wailing goes quiet. 

“Will you just hold still?” Our heavenly Father waits patiently for me to settle down, but I am too busy plunging ahead to the next thing. Like Wiley Coyote, I rush off the cliff before I realize I’m no longer on solid ground.

I am a yes or NOW person.

Like Wiley, I inevitably plummet.

Yet, somehow, God never loses patience with me. The invitation is always there, but unlike my frazzled impatience, his voice carries tone of amusement and sorrow:

“Will you just hold still?”

He offers rest and nourishment, and here I am, caught up in my whirlwind. The posture of my soul is not so much that of a nursing infant as it is the Tasmanian Devil.

“Will you just hold still?” he beckons. I can see the outstretched arm, and I long to take it. But I somehow lack the energy. Or the muscle memory. Or the will.

Taking that hand means stepping out of my cyclone. And sure, this cyclone wreaks havoc wherever it goes, but all the rubble means I don’t have to peer into the depths. I cling to chaos because when the cyclone stops, it will be time to clear all the clutter.

Be still and know that I am God.

I know that you are God. But I am just me.

Will I just hold still? Can I just hold still?

The answer is on the tip of my tongue.

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I’m in a wrestling match with our youngest daughter. She is and always has been a dream baby: restful, joyful, full of smiles and free of fits.

Until today.

At just shy of 19 months, she has decided on a zero-tolerance nap policy. She screams in my arms and flails with such force that I’m surprised she hasn’t given herself whiplash.

A younger me would have felt defeated by this show of force. Four kids in, and this is just Tuesday. I’m unperturbed by this exhaustion-induced fit. I know the signs; her little body is on overload. She just needs rest. I know that if I hold her long enough, she will surrender. Her resistance is futile.

I sing a soft lullaby, hoping to capture her attention. She screams louder. Sighing, I switch tunes, crooning out her favorite: the theme song to a 1980’s baby songs video from my husband’s childhood that has placated all of my children in their early years. The fashion is better than the music.

For a moment, she feigns disinterest, but I can tell this tactic is working. I repeat the refrain of this song I’ve employed countless times to subdue four babies over the years. Irritating as it is, the sweet relief of the silence that follows has imbued it with a sort of Pavlov’s effect on my psyche. My body begins to relax just before hers goes quiet.

I can see her eyelids begin to droop, head lulling forward with the slight rock of our chair. The fight is gone. No longer does she push against me. My patience has paid off. The resistance is gone, and she leans in to nurse. The stiffness leaves her body, and her weight settles against me comfortably.

I move to put her down just a hair too soon, and she protests. I wait, nursing her just a few moments longer.

In the quiet shadows of her room, I raise my eyes to the heavens and sigh. I let my own body go limp.

I surrender.

God has waited me out in these fitful years of my own flailing. He says to rest and be nourished. I am ready to receive, Lord. Not as I will, but as you will.

Just don’t put me down just yet.