A Spring of Joy

Being a wife and a stay-at-home-mom is what I want to be. It’s all I ever wanted to be, and what I believe to be the most important calling God has for my life. God chose to give that gift to me… to us.

Bri and I have made many sacrifices so I could stay home with our children. These choices have meant we go without things we might want or places we might want to go, but the most important thing for us was that I could be “all there” for our children.

Over the years I’ve learned (*ahem* am still learning) that in order for me to be “all there”, it also meant I must die.

Daily.

Hourly.

Dying to self.

It means that when I wanted to sit for 30 minutes and have my cup of coffee, I might instead have found myself changing a leaky diaper or rocking a sleeping baby or calming a toddler tantrum.

It means that when I wanted to sleep in, I might instead have been snuggling a 4 year old, or intentionally setting the alarm early so I can make time in the morning to read and pray.

It means that when I wanted to just veg after a long day, I might instead have been working through yet another issue with my husband or helping a child get to sleep who can’t wind down.

It means that when I wanted to buy that new purse or shoes or sweater, instead I’m might have been buying footy jammies and underwear for little ones who grow too quickly.

It means that when I wanted to read or browse the internet or even sit and write, I might instead have been f coloring or sculpting play-doh or reading children’s books instead.

It means that daily I am dying.

And dying is hard and painful.

Dying to myself and looking out for the good of my family rather than grasping tenaciously at my rights (or what I think them to be).

Dying to myself and speaking in honor and respect rather than complaining to others about children who don’t behave the way I think they should (like perfectly).

Dying to myself and choosing to see the needs of others rather than focusing on my own wants (which are often much less important).

Dying to myself and joyfully serving my family rather than begrudgingly work and wonder if anyone will even notice (because God does).

Dying to myself and rising at an early hour to begin my day in truth rather than spending my day franticly trying to find time to fit God in (and never finding a way).

Dying to myself and thanking God for the chaos rather than dwelling on how the chaos is not the way I wanted it to be (idealistic).

Dying.

And while I was working through all this dying, death came knocking on my door in that “you have breast cancer that’s spread to your lymph nodes and is the most aggressive form and we don’t know if it’s in your organs” kind of way and it offered perspective on life.

That true living means daily dying.

Daily.

Hourly.

Imperfectly.

But dying.

Dying while not easy, makes being a wife and mother much more wonderful.

Dying means the focus isn’t on me.

Dying opens my eyes and my heart to gratitude.

Gratitude.

Daily.

Hourly.

Imperfectly.

But so much gratitude.

So. much. gratitude.