You should have seen me right before our mini-getaway last weekend: I was haggard, bloated, teary-eyed and greasy-haired. I was a mother.

But then we took a four day break, and I felt better immediately.

Not because I wanted to get away from my children. Not at all. I was just tired of disciplining.

I was exhausted from constantly being the firm hand, the solid wall, the immovable fortress of behavior in this home. I didn’t want to send anyone else to their room or put anyone else on the “naughty” step. I was tired of making my seven-year-old earn her video game time and enforce reluctant apologies from my three-year-old. I didn’t feel like bringing my want-to-yell voice carefully down to a calm and patient request for obedience.

Tired of staying sharp to the emotional ups and downs of my oldest.
Tired of grasping defiant wrists to hoist my youngest away from the playground when it’s time to go.
Tired of walking away from tantrums.
Tired of watching any and all forms of discipline fall into the oubliette of childhood.

I wasn’t weary of my children. I was weary of disciplining.

And when I realized that, then I cried.

[And most women will agree with me that a good cry fixes a lot of things.]

Does God ever get tired of being the firm fortress like I do? And I’m not even that solid; I jiggle and waver at the slightest change in plans. Does He ever lie down exhausted because He’s just had too much of me? I’ve ignored Him and spat on his attention for the last time. Does He burst into tears because I never seem to get it right? Are my emotional sweeps too great for Him to be comfortable with me?

Does He just need a break?

No.

Never.

Even when I choose to walk away from His gentleness or His good plans for me He still pursues me. He doesn’t need a break, He doesn’t melt into tears of frustration, He doesn’t need a nap. He just is. His love never wanes for me or needs a boost of adrenaline. He never needs a shot or four of espresso to make it through the afternoon.

And He disciplines me in firm kindness like the perfect mother I am not.

You are brave.

You can run that extra mile.

Take a drink of water. Breathe in the cool air this morning. Relax your fists and uncurl the toes in your running shoes and go. Finish. Run to your goal. You are braver than you think and the extra mile won’t kill you.

You can raise your children in this world.

Speak the truth into their ears over dinner, before bed and while they sleep. Be the strength in their lives. Fill their hearts with good things, kind words, teach them and discipline them. Then… let go. You can do it. You are braver than you think.

You can tell your story boldly.

Take out the pencil. Open the laptop. And write. Tell. Good things come out of opening your heart and your mouth. You feel alone, but you aren’t and at the same time you have something unique to say. Speak rightly and truly and with chosen words. Tell your story. You are braver than you think.

You are brave.

I wasn’t here when Naomi ate the penny.

Or when she bloodied her chin on the driveway yesterday.

I wasn’t here this weekend when the girls went to sleep and they asked for me, or when they felt my absence in the mornings before school. I wasn’t here to check on them late at night and kiss foreheads one last time.

But I am now.

I am here to hear the giggles and laughter of tickles on the living room sofa. I am here to see a seven-year-old jump up and down in her riding outfit when I met her at her lessons straight from the airport. I am here to brush wet hair after baths.

I am home now. And this is where I belong.