It's morning time. The kids are eating breakfast, the coffee is brewed, and my husband is working. All seems calm. 

I decide to turn on a podcast- to engage my brain in something other than changing poop-filled diapers

I'm folding clothes in the kids bedroom. Stacks and stacks of new and hand-me down clothes. Tiny socks are strewn all about, each begging for their match.

The kids are playing. It's taken awhile, but they're finally learning how to be together. It seems like a small miracle when my daughter laughs at my son, when he takes her small frame into his with a tight squeeze. He doesn't know that I'm watching. 

I sit down to my laptop feeling inspired; as fresh words pour out of my fingertips - they need a place to stay, a place to be remembered. I want to rid myself of them before they're gobbled up by that weeks dinner menu and tomorrows errands. It's not often that I'm this focused in, this happy with the work my hands are doing. 

These scenes all seem to start off with such momentum, but often end in desperate interruption. A screaming toddler. A needy baby - wanting to nurse, wanting to cuddle, wanting time. Both of them - inundating the silence with exclamation marks and question marks and statements of what for and how come. Fresh piles of laundry come tumbling down, as these tiny godzillas toss the clothes about, pulling themselves over and swing themselves around in order to plant their bodies front and center. They climb up armchairs and onto laps as their wandering and curious hands turn my fingers' tap tap tap into delete delete delete and finally, shut! And I'm up, chasing after them as we finally fall into a heap of giggles and shouts of, "Again, Mama!" 


It's what motherhood has presented to me as a gift. But that which I deny, time and time again. I receive each interruption with exasperation, with frustration, and sometimes with anger.

Inside, I'm screaming. On the outside, I'm barely holding it together.

You see, I want more of me. 

Regardless, I put my tasks (my dreams, my hobbies, my self) on hold and turn my eyes towards my children. After all, the Kingdom belongs to the children. And who am I to deny either? They want my time. For me to get on their level and to engage with them. To be present. They want me. 

God wants more of me. All of me. 

He wants me to cry, chase, and run after Him. Again, Father! 

It seems that these interruptions are intended. They are in fact, holy. They are a cause to be intentional - with our lives and with our relationships. 

If I listen closely, I've learned to look pass the interruptions for the sermons. They're there - in the sound of feet clamoring across the kitchen floor, in my daughters giggle, and in my sons fearless demands. They're all saying the same thing. All reflecting what is the most important, the most sacred. 

They're saying, "More of me, less of you." And all I know now to say is, "Again, Lord."