A mother's heart bursts.

So while my son screams at me {you see Asperger's mixed with anxiety disorder mixed with puberty tends to mean acting out when stress enters in} . . .

and my daughter shares that she wants to be a foster care mom and housewife when she grows up . . .

and my tiny peanut of a little girl, who wears Indian lean features like a champ, cannot stop braggin' because she is beating us all in bowling . . .

I almost begin to get taken in.  I come to the edge of the cliff where I think perhaps I'll jump.  I'll take credit for the amazing and blame myself for the struggles.  And then I remember.

All is grace.

It makes sense.  And so, I lower my head and thank God for this wild adventure.  I remember that not one piece of this is because of me. 

It is all his.

Reaching for his hem,
Ann