A whisper during worship service reminds me of little brown-eyed faces framed by black hair. I see sticky grins of toddlers and missing-front-tooth smiles of elementary children. I feel their hugs. I sense their pain.
Children whose cries are ignored. Children who can’t imagine a canyon created by a river when the only canyon they know is etched in asphalt. Trapped by tall buildings and poverty. Pounding to escape.
Could I serve in a place like that again? Do I truly believe a tiny drop of love can crack massive walls erected by generations?
I do not doubt the efforts of loving my own three children. Motherhood is a worthy calling. I am grateful for the blue-eyes that beam at me every day.
But sometimes I wonder, is it enough?
Pouring my life out on a dirty kitchen floor somehow doesn’t seem the same as drenching hot concrete with my sacrifice. Yet this is where it continues.
My spiritual service of worship is a daily decision to lay myself on the altar as a living breathing offering. (Romans 12:1)
I can’t wait until I’m in the throes of tragedy to find what is acceptable to God. I need his mercy right now to sustain me in motherhood.
I need it to open my eyes to the little faces all around me.