What Bravery Sometimes Looks Like

Since I was just talking about quality time and planning adventures and since Father’s Day is this weekend, I was inspired to write down a memory of my Dad and an ode to road trips.

I was going into sixth grade—you know, that awkward time in a girl’s life where she is somewhere between teenager and child and on any given day cannot decide which way she would prefer to behave. My dad was taking the family on our almost annual road trip, in this case to Missouri to see my grandparents.

There are three things you need to know about my dad:

One: He always takes the scenic route. By this, I mean, we once drove “The Loneliest Road in America” just so we could say we’d driven “The Loneliest Road in America.” By this I also mean he will take the more beautiful stretch of highway (read: winding roads) instead of the faster, straighter stretch of highway. My mom’s stomach has never appreciated this.

Two: My dad thinks brown is the best color—for cars, for furniture, for clothes… And if he’s reading this right now he’s probably saying something along the lines of: “Well, it is! Brown never looks dirty. It holds up great. It matches everything.”

Three: My dad has very little tolerance for kids arguing in the backseat. We always knew he had reached his limit (or had gotten lost or the traffic was bad or the Forty-Niners were losing) when he made one loud clap with his hands, as though a carpenter had just dropped a wood block onto a concrete floor. He then rubbed his hands together as though that same carpenter took coarse sandpaper to his wood block and began vigorously sanding away. Most of the time, my dad also muttered under his breath during his hand-clap-and-rub signal.

On this one particular day, we were just leaving the Grand Tetons. We had hiked, we had been horse-back riding, we had stayed 3 kids in one bed with so much static electricity in it, it looked like a small lightning storm when you peeled back the comforter from the blanket (which naturally my brother and sister amused themselves with when I was ready to sleep). And now we siblings were tired of each other.

One half hour into our drive and we sounded like this:

“Mom, tell Andy to stop looking at me.”

“Mom, I’m not doing anything.”

“Andy! Mom, Andy keeps looking at me! He’s doing it to bug me.”

“I am not. Mom, tell Amanda to stop being so sensitive.”

“Mom!”

And then came the tell-tale sign: the carpenter entered our van, dropped his wood block and began to sand. Dad was done with our banter.

Mom intervened immediately. “Andy, you look out that window. Amanda, you look out that window. I don’t want to hear another word from anyone for ten minutes.”

For a few moments there was peace in that brown caravan as we passed from Grand Teton National Park into Yellowstone National Park. The road was winding and the trees were magnificent.

We rounded another bend. With my face against my designated window, I noticed a bear in the clearing.

I also noticed this bear was bounding.

Front feet. Back feet. Full on running at our Dodge. Teeth bared.

My eyes got wide. Am I really seeing this? And then words formed: “Bear! Bear! There’s a bear charging our car!”

My dad braked. My sister screamed. My brother asked, “Where?” I am pretty sure my mom stretched her arms across the front seat like a human seat belt.

The bear ran towards us until it got about a foot from our car. That brown creature was full of such fiery, testosterone-charged rage. It’s like it didn’t see us, it just saw red—some carnal instinct to take out a threat and not stop till it was gone. And then it did see us. It stopped, looked incredibly puzzled, turned around and trotted back through the trees, indifferent to the van full of panic-stricken homo sapiens.

My dad, who I am pretty sure would kick some serious butt on Jeopardy, explained to a wide-eyed car, “It’s mating season. We must have entered that bear’s territory. And, I guess, our brown van looked a bit like a bear.”

In that vacation we managed to see Old Faithful, dig for quartz crystals in Montana, take pictures of Mount Rushmore, experience small-town Missouri on the Fourth of July complete with 90% humidity, Grandma’s homemade ice-cream, and my uncle’s lesson on how to properly extract the bottom off of lightning bugs to make glow-in-the-dark rings. On the return trip we ate lunch in the world’s largest McDonald’s, swam in hotel swimming pools, and saw lightning touch the ground in Colorado. We fought over Gameboys and walkmans. We played travel bingo. We had the forced undivided attention of one another for near 3 weeks solid. Much of that time was in the six by ten foot space of one brown-like-a-bear Dodge caravan.

As a parent now, I look at my parents with a sense of awe. My dad planned family road trips. He knew the bickering he would have to endure. He knew he was going to hear “Are we there yet?” at least ninety-seven times. He knew there would be no less than thirty inconvenient bathroom stops. He knew his patience would be pushed past the limit, and, that at some point on that trip, he would be thoroughly annoyed with each one of us, possibly all of us at the same time.

He planned road trips anyways.

My dad gave us the world. He let us see it, know it, experience it, adventure through it. He gave us memories and stories to tell. He gave us relationships with each other forged in the fire of small spaces and big personalities on the back roads of America.

My dad is one of the brave ones.

Thank you Daddy. And Happy Father’s Day.

My Dad, Mom and brother Andy circa 1987. Eighties Dad-Fashion at it's finest. :)

My Dad with my kids. Highlight of my 4 and 1 year olds' lives: riding Papa's mower.

Did your family take road trips? What is a favorite memory from one of them?

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers

I'm a Quality-Time Girl And Other Epiphanies

A few weeks ago, I was sharing the difficulty of coping with my husband’s schedule with a friend. Sometime during the course of the conversation, my friend casually said something along the lines of, “Oh, you’re a quality-time girl.”

I figured she was referring to The Five Love Languages which, by the way, I have never read.

Her comment took a few days to sink in. I had always assumed I was a words of affirmation kind of girl or the kind of girl that likes thoughtful gifts.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized my perceptive friend might be right.

………………….

Yesterday we spent time as a family. We loaded up the car, we drove to unfamiliar country, we explored, and we drove home. Kids sat perched on shoulders, silly songs were sang, jokes were told, and kids napped the whole way home while mom and dad held hands and talked about the future. After a good rest, the kids were sent to their grandparents while Mike and I sipped wine, ate good food, out-talked and out-laughed the clearly-just-dating couple sitting in earshot (and yes, we also dropped eaves together). We shared dessert and closed out the restaurant looking each other in the eyes and holding hands across the table.

Quality time.

It felt like my lungs were filled with air. My soul felt nourished. And suddenly the future didn’t have to be decided so long as those two kids and that one man were in it.

Yes, I am definitely a quality-time girl.

………………………..

I wanted to share an epiphany I had (outside of the one where I figured out my love language).

This family is weathering change. A storm of sorts. Where mom is fighting off anxiety and depression and trying to find a new normal. Where dad is in a completely new career… the kind where you put your life on the line, the kind where you see things you can never unsee, the kind where your normal day is showing up to someone’s worst day.

When a ship is weathering a violent storm, cargo is thrown overboard to lighten the load, to make the storm more manageable.

And don’t we do the same? When we are busy, or facing change, or in the throes of some trial, don’t we tend to say “no” more? Get terrible at keeping in touch with friends? Eat more frozen pizza? Excuse things like yelling and messes and the behaviors we normally keep in check?

So here’s my thought: When you are facing a storm in your life, evaluate what is most important so you don’t accidentally toss it off the ship. You need to know what needs to be held on to. 

And here’s where the love language thing comes in: Knowing the love language of everyone in your family is, well, at the cost of sounding cliché, really important. No matter what storms you face, you will weather them so much better as a family if you hold onto love.

Some suggestions:

• If someone in your family needs those words of affirmation, don’t allow the head-in-your-hands frustration to rob you of your kind words for him.
• If you are facing a financial storm and someone in your family is a gift-receiver, just because you need to cut back spending doesn’t mean you should cut back those thoughtful gifts.  
• If your husband is now working long and strange hours and someone in your family happens to be a quality time person, make the effort to carve out quality time somehow, someway.
• If you find yourself emotionally and physically exhausted and someone in your family receives love through hands-on touch or by acts of service, don’t stop being affectionate; don’t stop doing.

In it all, there will need to be creativity. Like how to fit quality time into a unique and limited schedule or how to give gifts with a very a small budget.

And in it all, there will need to be grace. Grace for you. Grace for your loved ones. Grace that allows you to work it out one day at a time.  And I think it’s also important to add, grace that gently teaches a spouse to speak a language he does not naturally speak (like for example, my husband doesn’t quite understand how to speak quality time. So I am learning that if I plan it, he will give me his undivided attention. Asking him to plan it, at least on a regular basis, is like asking him to speak Chinese—something he definitely does not know how to do.)

{Here’s a link to Focus on the Family's bit on The Five Love Languages. It includes a summary of the truths in the book and a quiz if you would like to figure out your own love language}

This family is now taking advantage of my husband’s long weekends that he gets every other week, and making at least one of the days family adventure day. I am kind of excited. I love me some adventures. I know quality time is one cargo item on this family's ship that we need to keep us nourished as we adjust to change… and will keep this woman grounded when she braves the long work week where she barely sees her man.

So, what’s your love language?

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers

Love That Conquers Fear and The Return of Thankful Thursdays

Last week I found a lump on my son’s stomach. It was firm, about the size of a dime. My brain automatically went to doctor-mode as though I could accurately self-diagnose with my limited knowledge. Hernia? Benign Growth? And then the terrible, most-feared c-word that I dared not even whisper, but could not push from my mind: Cancer?

I made an appointment with his pediatrician. And as I drove up to the doctor’s office, just me and my Jed-man, I began to pray. And then I began to cry. What if…? What if…? What if…? And Oh God! Please!

A momma’s number one fear: that something horrible and completely beyond our control will happen to the life we hold most precious… the life of our child.

For some reason as I pleaded and drove, my mind flashed to the little birthmark my son bears. The little boy whose name means “Beloved of Y-HW-H” wears a little mark in the shape of heart on his leg—the legs that will take him wherever he will go.

And God spoke to me:

Jed is the apple of my eye. He is my beloved. I am with him. And that child who is most precious to you, is most precious to ME—God of the whole universe. I see him, I formed him. And daughter, I love you too. I am God. And you can trust that I will take care of whom I love. I have an eternal perspective and you cannot fathom My ways. You are marked by love, and you have it wherever you go.

What is this fear? And why is trust so hard? And why is trust so hard and fear so suffocating when it comes to our kids?

When fear grips and the trials of life clamor, why is it that I cling to whom and what I call mine? Why don’t I keep it all in God’s hands when I most need His hand to move in it all? 

Perfect love casts out all fear.

Love trumps fear. Love defeats fear. Love is the very tool that plucks fear out.

So before I even stepped foot into the doctor's office and heard that the lump is something completely normal and easily taken care of (an epigastric hernia, if you are curious)… this momma had peace. I had peace not because I was sure it would be okay, I had peace because I was sure of God’s love for me and for Jed. And as much as I’d like to know it all and how it all works out, I think love is a pretty good thing to be sure of.

You are beloved. You are the apple of His eye. You were bought with a price. You have been adopted into God’s family. You are chosen and desperately wanted. Your adoption papers have been draw up and sealed in the very blood of Christ Jesus. You are marked by the very love of God, the blood over the doorpost of your heart, and you take that love wherever you go. No matter how much you love your children, He loves them more. No matter how much you love your cars, houses, jobs, life... He loves you more.  

Psst... If you would like to read more about love and fear, I wrote a post that still speaks to me a few months back: On Fear and Freedom.

--------------------------------------------

As of late, I am struggling. I am pretty sure if you have been following me for any length of time, this is no secret. Life has been swallowing me whole and I've felt myself coming a bit unraveled. I may be slowing down the writing (okay, I probably have already slowed down the writing here). I may or may not be working on a book. And I just really need to do some healing, some focused effort on family and going from survival mode to fully living in our circumstances. I make no promises of how often I will post, just that for the summer, most of my writing will be off-screen.

That said, I love connecting here. (This blog and the connections I've made are such a gift. You are a gift!) I think part of that "fully living in our circumstances" thing is finding the gifts God gives and receiving them. I need to get back to the basics of gratitude and the great gift hunt that fills my heart with joy. So, I am starting back my "Thankful Thursdays."

So here it is: some of the gifts I have found...

#230 For being together in one place, good food, and another birthday with granma.

#231 For time at the park, just me and this guy.

#232 For the little girl that made good on her promise to ride her bike the whole way to the lake and back.

#233 For kids that stop to search for bugs.

#234 A good reminder on a rough day. Hope deferred makes the heart sick... Hold on to hope.

#235 My view from the laundry pile.

#236 For Psalm 91 "He who dwells in the secret place will abide under the shadow of the Almighty..." and for finding a good "secret place."

#237 For little boys who are fascinated with how things work and are full of so much potential. (Yes, that's blueberry yogurt. Also missing from the picture are about 25 more globs... on light fixtures, ceiling, walls, chairs and doors... yeah. Choosing to see the gift in the moment.)

#238 Bedtime Stories and both kids on my lap.

#239 New glasses! And no blue tape!

What was your messiest moment from the week? (Mine clearly involved yogurt and an almost-2 year old)


By Grace,
Amanda Conquers

Oh That Fabulous Fringe Bottom

It seems everyone around me is having or has just had a baby. And, I'd be lying if I said I didn't have a touch of baby fever. Soft skin, newborn smell, a little baby that lays so snuggly right under your chin--that fully loves you and trusts you and doesn't talk back to you.... Sigh. Yeah, okay. I will move forward with this post now. 

My sister and I were standing in the fabric store (a very dangerous place for these two sisters to be) contemplating which lace would make for the best ruffle butt on a onesie. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted it. Fringe! Before I could even think through the idea, it was out of my mouth.

"Dude! Kelly! Forget ruffles. Fringe. Fringe!" In my enthusiasm, I may have even grabbed the spool and shook it in her face.

My sister paused for a second while thinking through whether my idea was a good one or a crazy one.

"Dude." (My sister also speaks fluent Californian.) "With little tiny baby moccasins?! That would be amazing!"

Those four little words sealed it: "little tiny baby moccasins." We may have even squealed in the middle of the fabric store. We were doing this. We had never seen fringe on onesie before, but we were prepared to bravely go where no crafter had gone before all in the name of little tiny baby cuteness. Because really, anytime you attach the adjectives "little," "tiny," and "baby" to a noun... that noun automatically becomes cute. Little tiny baby fingers. Little tiny baby socks. Little tiny baby bottle. Little tiny baby fringe bottom. 

(and there's that baby fever again... I think I need one of my friends to let me hold their baby until he spits up on me... ;)

I didn't take any pictures of actually sewing the fringe on, so you are not going to get a tutorial, but it was literally a matter of pinning a layer of fringe across the bottom of a onesie and then sewing it on. I chose to do two layers of fringe. I think it took 15 minutes... including the time it took to make a bobbin, thread it, fight with my machine, and then sew the ruffle. 

I have a feeling this faux leather fringe is not the most practical embellishment. It seems there is a chance that the fringe could get ruined after a few too many wears, but it's fringe. And it's cute. And it would make a great picture in a pair of these:

Photo Credit

Oh. My. The cuteness! Little tiny baby moccasins with a little tiny baby fringe bottom!

Do you have baby fever now too? 

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers

Pssst... Did you notice?! My first crafty post in a long time! I doubt I will be back to my once-a-week routine like I used to do anytime soon, but it feels so good to have some creativity flowing and to just write a light-hearted post. There will be more of these in the future! xo


Sharing in these places: 

In Honor of My Granny

She always wore perfume, an Elizabeth Taylor if I remember correctly. If you happened to catch her on the right day of the week, her red hair would be in a silky scarf that hid her rollers. I still remember the time she took me to Washington D. C. my eighth grade year and how she out-walked every parent and student without a single complaint or a drop of sweat on her forehead.

She held all the dignity of England and the fiery tenacity of the Scots in her small frame.  She knew how to host a party and which fork was which. You couldn’t tell which of her clothes were from Macy’s and which she had sewn herself. She drank tea and light beer and was a really good friend to many.

I was nineteen going on twenty-five. I had just ended an engagement. I felt broken and free all at the same time. As I sat sipping my water in the living room, she sat down next to me.

“’Mander,” her Australian accent still clung to her vowel-ending words, “I want you to know, I think you did the right thing.” Her hand landed on my knee, reassuring me.

“Thanks, Granny.” It came out a little awkward. I don’t think I had ever really talked about boys with her.

“You know, I broke off an engagement before your Gramps.”

Her words kind of hung in the air. I looked at her with shock. I could see the determination on her face to share this story. “I was young, and I thought I was in love. He was handsome too. But he was a Catholic, and I was a Protestant. I would have had to marry him in the Catholic church. I would have had to convert. I thought I loved him, but I just couldn't give up that part of myself. I wouldn't stop being who I was and who I wanted to be for anyone.”

I listened, hanging on to her every word, trying imagine what she must have looked like and how she must have felt. Young, beautiful, and fiery.

“I really thought I would end up an old maid. I was already old for not being married in those days. I volunteered at the Navy hall and served American soldiers. I met your Gramps that way, while he was in the service. I began corresponding with his mother. And one day, I decided to move to America. I moved in with your Gramps’ mother, found work, and, when your Gramps came home, we married.”

I marveled at her courage. Leaving home. Leaving comfort. Stepping out into the unknown.

She paused. “I have never looked back. I held onto my values. I waited for the right thing. I have had a long and happy marriage, 3 kids, and 6 lovely grandkids. I wouldn’t trade it for the whole world.”

She didn’t share the marriage struggles or the sleepless nights with her babies or the trying teenage years. And she didn’t have to. I knew the hard times were there. She had never been one for gushy sentimentals either, perhaps a sign of the generation she belonged to, but she didn’t have to say anything more. I knew it. I felt it. I was her prize. Her legacy. The thing she fought for. The thing she wanted dearly. I was worth it. And she loved me.

She was calling me to fight.

Me and my granny in Washington D. C. way back in 1997. 

My Granny's Treasures one year after she left us (plus my aunt and uncle on my mom's side). Note to self: I think this is my most recent picture of my dad's side of the family with everyone in it, we should probably change that ;)

So, as I sit missing my dear granny, praying for my gramps who is in the hospital, and thinking of Mother’s Day, can I just say this?

Whether you are a mother or not, there is something woven into the fabric of every women’s heart: to give, to fight, to love, to pursue, to encourage. Perhaps it’s occasionally ignored or the trials of life crush it, but it’s there, and it needs to be called out.

So, here’s to the determined, the fighters, the wisdom imparters, the courageous. Here’s to the givers and the servers. Here’s to the tenacious. Here’s to all who are willing to live life with conviction and pass that conviction on. Here’s to all who have ever gone out of their way for another. Here’s to the vulnerable.  

Here’s to my moms, my grandmothers, my pastors’ wives, my dear mentor friends…

Happy Determined-Warrior, Sacrifice-Maker, Real-Beauty-Imparter Day!

Happy Mother’s Day!

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers

PS- Could I ask you to pray for my Gramps? His heart is failing him, and, more importantly, he is not a believer. Thank you, friends.

On Cheerios, Failure, and Widows Who Give Their Everything

My house had been a mess.

And I don’t mean mess like we are in junior high listening to the skinniest girl in the group complain about how she feels fat today. I mean mess. As in cheerios had been everywhere. As in my son’s favorite pastime is pulling folded laundry off the chair and throwing it all over the living room. As in my daughter squeezed a tube of concealer onto my carpet, and I was so overwhelmed that I just threw a blanket over it until I could emotionally handle the effort it was going to take to remove the stain. As in momma had been off her feet for the day and daddy did a great job of watching the kids (and only watching the kids)… {I am pretty sure you are getting the idea, but, trust me, I could go on.}

It took a few days to get the house back to its semi-ordered state. I may have even started crying when my kids got up from their nap, and the floors still hadn't been mopped {and I may have even said something along the lines of: “Why?! Why can’t I just have clean floors even if it only lasts for 5 minutes?!”}.

I would be lying if I said that I didn’t walk through that house feeling like an absolute failure. There was an all-out war being waged on my mind to compare myself to other homemakers; to wallow in the woe-is-me’s; to yell at my kids who, true to their almost-2 and almost-5 natures, continued to make messes whether I stopped to clean or not. I kind of wanted to throw the blankets over my head and hope somehow when I emerged life would magically let me be all caught up.

Please tell me I am not the only one who has been here.

I came across this the other day:

“And [Jesus] sat down opposite the treasury, and began observing how the people were putting money into the treasury; and many rich people were putting in large sums.  A poor widow came and put in two small copper coins, which amount to a cent.  Calling His disciples to Him, He said to them, ‘Truly I say to you, this poor widow put in more than all the contributors to the treasury;  for they all put in out of their surplus, but she, out of her poverty, put in all she owned, all she had to live on’.” Mark 12:41-44

Can I share the sweet words I heard Jesus speak to me in this?

Daughter, I see you. I see how you are tired, how you aren’t getting enough sleep, how you feel like you accomplish nothing. I see the way you feel energy-poor, the way you struggle to find a routine. I see you clean a mess while a new mess is getting made. I see the way you think you are falling behind. I see you.

And I see the way that you give out of your lack. The way you keep pushing, the way you stop what you are doing to love on those babies, the way you point them to Me. You might think you gave Me great things when you were younger and had an abundance of time and energy. But I say your contribution here and now amongst cheerios and dirty diapers is greater. You once gave the things that you were most proud of—the things you were most able to accomplish well, the things that didn't require as much of My help. Now you give out of humility and obedience and sacrifice because I ask it of you.

You give out of your lack. And it is good. And I am here. And my Grace is sufficient.

I am proud of your offering.

  

In case you were wondering: Yes. There were tears writing this. No. I do not have it all together. Yes. I need as much encouragement as you do. No. My house is not extra clean, nor am I extra put together because I have a blog (in fact, I would argue my put-together-ness is probably worse for it, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.)

“Come to Me, all who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest.  Take My yoke upon you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.  For My yoke is easy and My burden is light.” Matthew 11:28

So, have you ever felt depleted of time and energy and like you were failing? How did you push through?

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers



Linking up in these lovely places: Motherhood, Celebrating the Difference

On Failure {And Motherhood}

I’ve always been ambitious and driven. I can be a bit competitive and not very okay with mediocre. I don’t want to be okay. I want to be the best. And failure? I sort of hate it.

I remember being a teenager and making a list of everything my husband would have to be. As a 22 year old, I sat in my pastor’s office and voiced my concern that I may never marry. He told me the strangest, yet best advice ever: “Amanda, you need to lower your standards.”

{And for the record, he didn’t mean to go marry the first single man I laid eyes on. He meant my ideal guy didn’t exist.}

And I let go of my list, trusted the leading of my God, and fell madly in love with my husband. And he is far better than anything I could have imagined up on a sheet of binder paper as a sixteen year old.

In light of this, I think of being a mom. The way it feels like I fail a thousand times a day. The way I fall so short of how I imagined I would be as a mom. I am terrified of failing and deep down I think I have to be a perfect mom.

I love my kids. To the moon and back. With all my heart. No matter what.

But I wonder if I lowered my standards, wasn’t so afraid to fail, wasn’t so set on being perfect if I would fall in love with being a mom.

I think things like the blue lotion in my son’s hair and the bedtime battles wouldn’t speak to me and tell how badly I am doing at this thing called motherhood.

I think I would let go a little, trust God a lot more, and enjoy the daily grind of being a mom… because I wouldn’t be so afraid of getting it wrong.

Because if I am really honest, some days I find myself looking for the things I am naturally really good at instead of what’s right in front of me. I struggle with being content here and now. I want affirmation. I want to know I am good at something. And the days where the floor got covered in Cheerios and the son hit his sister and the sister rolled her eyes at me and the son got out of his bed for the 15^th time and it’s now pushing 10 pm and he’s still not asleep and the dishes got left in the sink for the next day and the daughter wet the bed and I haven’t gotten a solid 8 hours of sleep since that first baby started bladder jumping in utero in the wee hours of the morning… I feel like I’ve failed.

It’s not that I should intentionally do a terrible job of parenting, it’s that my ideal version of motherhood doesn’t exist.

Motherhood is messy. And most days, it’s like hacking through the jungle, bravely pioneering the unknown territories of your own fearfully, wonderfully and uniquely made children. And somedays, it’s going to feel like groping through the dark without a flashlight. It’s going to be rough. You are going to make mistakes and missteps. And really it’s the Grace of God that sees us through.

What I said yesterday has really stuck with me: God is a beautiful-tapestry weaver. And He takes it all, stretches the messes and the triumphs across the loom and weaves His Grace through it all. And He makes beautiful things. He’s got your family. He’s got your kids. He’s got you. And HE is making beautiful things out of it all.

And God doesn’t need you to get it perfect.

So perfect. I am giving up on you.

I am going to {learn to} be okay with failure. I am lowering the standards I place on myself. Instead of getting it right, I am going to take it all to the One who makes all things right.

The single most important thing I can do as a mom is lead my children to You, God. So I am taking it all to You. The path to the foot of the cross is going to be a well-worn path in this family. My kids will know the way because they will have watched their momma go there so many times.

Okay, so I gotta know: is there anyone else that has been chasing perfect? That’s afraid of failure? That feels like they are currently failing at this thing called motherhood? Sister, I am standing here with you.

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers