I have decided that I am not normal.
I am not like those ladies who can look at a craft and remake it within hours. I am not crafty at all. Period.
I do not even like to scrapbook and Pinterest makes me feel guilty. Except for the food on there.
I am not beautiful or tan, with delicate cheekbones. Instead, I have a round face – which I’m told gets rounder when pregnant. Who cares . . . I’m eating for two and I’ll enjoy every last bite. Round cheeks or no.
I am selfish to the point where if my child finishes the last sausage, and I only got a bite, I will turn around and eat a cookie. All the while thinking “That’ll teach them.”
Color coordination is not my forte. I’m sure I’ve clashed somewhere, sometime. And that’s not just in clothing. That includes decorating and painting. My husband is the one who can see what colors go together. But at least I’m a happy clasher who is unaware of it, most of the time.
I am not a fan of stories where little children are molested, wives must vie for their husband’s attention in polygamy, or any stories where starvation, poverty, and anguish excel. Especially where little children are concerned. It literally gives me a stomach ache. And then I feel guilty that I can’t handle it. So I force myself to read them because I know I need that dose of reality, but it squeezes my heart something awful.
I do not have a green thumb. There’s been many times I’ve pretended I do, but it’s time to face the facts. Every plant I’ve ever had in my house, I kill.
My closets are not neatly organized and sometimes I want to close my eyes the minute I step into my attic. And I especially don’t enjoy getting pointers from moms of 12 kids whose homes are neat as a pin and their children can actually find their clothing. Those perfectly organized moms make me feel guilty too.
I am not . . .
or am I?
I am a daughter of the King. He fashioned my little body, heart, and soul 34 years ago – knowing all He wanted me to be.
I am loved immensely by a man who can still make my heart beat faster.
I am cherished and adored by five little children. Who call me Mom. Adoration to a 3 year old is when he snuggles up beside me on the recliner and offers me his most favorite blanket.
I am supported by my father and mother, who taught me at a very young age to love the truth of God’s Word and to never stop fighting for it.
I can cook a good meal – not gourmet and the potatoes might be lumpy, but it will fill little bellies.
I may not be able to color coordinate all the time, but at least I’m thankful for all the clothes I have been given.
I may not be able to knit a beautiful, miniature-sized flower, but I can play a mean game of hand and foot with my children.
I love to can our garden’s harvest and then linger in my basement, just looking at all the pretty jars full of yummy food.
I love being a mom to these five, soon six, precious souls. I love the talks we have about heaven, how a tree grows, and what snow is made of.
I am my husband’s biggest supporter. Nobody else knows him like I do. They’ve not seen the uphill battle he’s faced since his accident, but I have. I know the demons that have screamed in his ear for him to give up, but he wouldn’t listen to them. That’s my man. And I’m proud to be called his wife.
I love being the woman God made me. For some reason, He didn’t want all the craftiness stitched into my body or the gourmet cooking to come easily for me. But He gave me a heart of love I can pass on to my husband, my children, and my friends.
That’s good enough for me.
Now who are you?
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