Tuesday, April 19, 2016
I'm not thirty yet.
But I spend too much time fretting about me.
How I think I look older than I am.
Wrinkles, sun-spotted skin, places that wiggle and jiggle in ways they didn't before...
And I fret about more. Those hours in the middle of the day when I'm crabby and snap at the kids,
those times when I'm not enough, when there's not enough of me to go around. Between children, husband, and home, the things I cannot keep up with, the things that don't ever get done.
This picture, though, tells a different story.
I'm not thirty yet,
but I am so loved. Loved and needed and wanted.
I have these people,
who don't care about the things I care about.
All they care about,
Just the way I am.
They just want me. They just love me.
They love my soft arms, my kisses. They love that I care enough to know how to slice their toast just the way they like it.
They love that I get up each day to care for them, whether or not I get a shower or put on makeup. They love my smile and the way my nose crinkles when I'm really having fun.
They just want me to read stories to them. Play castle with them. Feed them and bathe them and snuggle them into bed. Pray with them. Teach them the stories of Jesus.
And that's all they want from me.
To them, I'm enough.
These people tell a more real truth than I tell myself.
And I'm learning to listen.