I really don’t have time to write today. But it’s one of the days that if I don’t, I may explode, the pieces of me, of my brokenness scattered for all to see.

And though writing is like breathing and sometimes I just have to, I hesitate to be real. To write real.

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So I hold my breath. Because I never want to invite my friends to a pity-party with me as guest of honor sitting on my pity-pot like the queen of I’ve-Got-It-Bad-Land, sobbing as my tiara gets ripped of my head from my steroid-raging, non-verbal child while my subjects scurry to get towels to wipe the plethora of mess I’m privileged to clean numerous times daily.

Privileged?  I changed that three times before I actually left it because it kept coming back and I could not shake it no matter how I tried. So, I must be.  God has given me this life and I am to be thankful in all things. Not for all things, but in them.

And while being a wife and mother is my heart’s desire, some days, I sense that it’s not enough.

As a young woman, I felt that need would be satisfied with a career. As I’ve gotten older and dedicated my life to the Lord, I admit I can envy those in ministry, those preaching inspiring messages and leading magnificent Bible studies. I want to tell my story on a stage, be given a platform for what God has called me to do through speaking and writing. I want to go on mission’s trips and even envying my own children who can and the fact they have their whole lives ahead to serve God. I wasted so much time with foolishness.

Yet I know comparison produces nothing and I must walk my walk and do what I am called to do right now.

But sometimes, my legs get cramped, my feet become calloused and my body weary and sore. My arms bear the physical marks of a frustrated and ill child.

I cry to God, “Do you see this??”

“Do you see what I am doing?”

“Do you see me?”

No one sees.

I am invisible.

My other children bear the brunt and carry my hurt. It’s unfair to them, but I know no way around it.

I looked at my oldest son as he helped me one day.  I just looked at him and said, “It’s a different life,” and he nodded. He often carries a load I feel unfair but am so thankful for his heart that is so soft, yet must be so burdened. But he never complains.

But I do at times. I complain when I shouldn’t because others are facing worse. I complain that others complain about things that seem insignificant.

I am a hypocrite when I complain. I have much to be grateful for and the greatest at this very moment is that God’s mercies are new every day.

Every minute.

When I am at the end of my rope, He grabs the other end and pulls me to Him.

He wipes my face and bottles my tears. He does not judge me for them. He knows my heart and feels my hurt and sees my thankfulness even as I shake my fist at Him.

And He sees me.