My mom used to dance in the mornings.

A happy, shameless jig in her PJs right there out in the driveway as my dad drove us off to school. She’d dance and wave and grin and I could feel the love well up from my toes to my nose. It spilled out of me – this being someone’s daughter. Loved. Cherished. Celebrated.

She’s been dead now 18 years to the day since I turned 18.

I am a motherless daughter.

And I’m sharing about it over at (in)courage today.
Join me for more than five minutes? Just click here.

Then come back over, flex your fingers, and let’s play Five Minute Friday.

Where we throw caution (editing, revising, and worrying) to the winds and just write. Without wondering if it’s just right or not.

For five minutes flat. The rules are easy.

  1. Write your heart out for five minutes and show us what you’ve got.
  2. Tell your readers you’re linking up here and invite them to play along.
  3. And most importantly, go visit, read, and encourage the fellow five-minuter who linked up right before you.
    {Pretty please turn off word verification for the day to make this easier!}

Easy peasy.

Oh and there’s always a little fun something-something in it for one five minute artist. Last week I got to give away this All Things Are Possible Water Bottle to random winner Abby@Fan the Flame.

This week DaySpring’s Love Letters from God Flower Pot is up for grabs.

OK, are you ready? Give me your best five minutes for the prompt:

Motherhood Should Come With…

Motherhood should come with a cape, a tutor, a counselor, a massage therapist, a lifetime’s supply of chocolate, Kleenex, and therapy. Or girlfriends who’ve already been there, done that. It should come with a choir that bursts into gospel praise and chorus as the sound track to the every day moments that so few get to witness – first breaths, steps, loves, and words.

It should come with a manual. A thick one and also a Cliff’s Notes version.

It should come with a sense of humor.

Motherhood should come with a twinkle in the eye and a warning. A warning that you will never be the same; that before it’s over your heart will have cracked into a thousand tiny splinters of love so profound your body can barely contain what your soul is experiencing. That you will hurt in ways no one could prepare you for and ache with a vulnerability no one can protect you from.

And that as hard as it is, you would sign up to do it all over again without a second’s hesitation.

{Photo Credit: Natalie Webb}


OK, your turn.

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