Whether I’m hiding behind my kids or not. Whether I’m tired, wraggedy, or manic.

He sees me.

Not my undone laundry or my messy house. Not my fraying door mat or my futon with the chocolate milk stains.

He sees me.

Beyond the color of my hair or the size of my waist. Over the grocery lists of immediate needs I rattle off to Him every morning. Behind the worry.

He sees me.

Inside my inside dreams, my secret hopes; at the crux of where mommy meets wife and woman.

He sees me.

Over the rim of my computer screen, behind my blog posts and inside the head that spins these words in circles.

He sees me.

In the hard watches of the night when I rock her and ache and slip lower and lower down the lip of the rocker. Alone. Or so it seems.

He sees me.

When I scream with my face set in a shrill whisper at the boys to drop what they are doing and take heed, ’cause mama will be on the war path if baby girl wakes when there’s a chance of some more sleep at 6am.

He sees me.

As I scrounge for a few minutes to read a single Bible verse; to listen to a chapter on my phone as I soothe and rock and repeat.

He sees me.

Beyond how I see myself. Beyond my lens, beyond my point-and-shoot camera, beyond my life of diapers, juggling and writing. Beyond my homesickness and current dearth of frequent flier miles. Beyond my accent, my zip code and my passport.

He, and He alone, truly sees me.

And oh dear friend, I hope you know He sees You too.

His eye is on the sparrow
and I know He watches me.

 

Edited from the archives

::

I think motherhood should come with a super hero cape and a cheerleader.
My {free} eBook The Cheerleader for Tired Moms might be the next best thing.
Enter your email address and when my posts arrive in your inbox, look for the link in the footer and download the eBook easy peasy!
Delivered by

::

  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •