I was not going to be a mom.
The idea of being a struggling artist in the big city captured my heart from a young age and motherhood never fit that script.
But scripts are frequently re-written.
I was suddenly cast as a wife, a mother, a missionary.
The role I play is limited in glamor. No name in lights and no big debut. Tight costumes were exchanged for control-top leggings, and my audience became tiny people who relied on me to provide exponentially more than entertainment.
Motherhood took me by storm, and as much as my teen self “couldn’t even,” the truth is, being a mommy is the most honorable performance of my life.
When God got to my scene, He choreographed suffering into my steps. Illness and death were passed to me as props.
With grace, I look to Him to defeat the grave daily and provide punctuality to my feet as they struggle to keep the pace.
With small hands reaching up, I carry us through the spectacle of sorrow that the curtains carry. Closing in. Heavy and dark.
A dance of perseverance. Sore in all the wrong places. Stretched mind over movement.
Most days my motherhood musical is a mundane masterpiece with little clapping and less publicity. Other days I am astounded by the gawking eyes of passersby.
At night as my heart steadies, I am unable to rehearse for tomorrow. Tomorrow’s composition is always confidential. Written in the sky. I pray to fly. For His eyes are all that matter.
In Him alone, my fame is found.