A mother is made in the mess.
A baby enters the world in a mix of blood, sweat, and tears. Milk leaks and comes back up. Bottoms are wiped and showers sacrificed for sleep. Hair is put up as laundry overflows.
A mother is made in the mess.
Toys are strewn about. A little potty sits in the corner, towels at its base. A sippy cup lies on the floor, juice flooding the remains of yesterday’s snack. Clothes are thrown from room to room, a new pile as base for the little scouts. Tears fall, and words come out a jumble, as destruction follows the pitter-patter of little feet.
A mother is made in the mess.
Papers fly as books lie open. Pencils and pens line a table. Baseball pants require soaking, as ballet slippers need mending. Mud tracks in with their latest finds. Knees are skinned and faces are burnt. Food is prepared and gone in a flash. Sheets are changed. And boxes clothing the years past, line the garage, not quite ready to let go.
A mother is made in the mess.
Hearts are broken and bodies transform.
Disrespect spews. Procrastination projects are tornados on the dining table. People run in as others file out. Schedules and commitments flood the fresh new month. Gas runs low, as closets reside in cars. Dinner is eaten on the run, and weekends are spent at the field.
A mother is made in the mess.
Though your home may seem destroyed, though your car holds half a closet. Though your sink is full of dishes, and your floors scattered by crumbs. Though your head brims with lists, and your shoulders bear deep burdens. Though your soul seeks rest, and your hair seeks a shower.
The mess surrounding you is where you shine brightest.
For in the midst of a mess, a mother nurtures and protects. She listens and coaches. She heals and encourages. She soothes and repairs. She laughs and she cries.
The mess, the chaos, is the refinement of the heart, revealing the purest gold.
So shine bright, sweet mama, for you were made for this sweet, messy life.
This article originally appeared on Choosing Freelen
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