Drooping around disheveled rooms—dark under-eyes—a martyred spirit in the chaos.
Victim to motherhood. Self-righteous disbelief toward those who claim “togetherness.”
The children’s whining reminding us we are sacrificial, the scattered toys making us feel needed, our rumpled clothing a sign of how little we spend on ourselves.
But there is no glory in the mess.
Pinterest-worthy photos, children always on brand. The right diet. The right car. The right neighborhood surrounded by the right people.
Spotless rooms making us feel successful. Perfect hair giving us feelings of worth. A list of credentials boosting our credibility.
It’s perfect…and empty.
Idols always let us down.
But somewhere in the middle is a warm, happy home. Where messes happen. Grace is present. And joy lights up every room.
Mama makes her house a haven, that fuels and feeds her soul. Always learning how to better steward her time, energy, and resources, yet staying clear of society’s burden of false pretense and measuring up.
She doesn’t glorify the mess—there’s no righteousness in clutter. She doesn’t idolize perfection—Christ doesn’t value grand.
But her simple, faithful actions, radiate through her home, as she takes moments of chaos and crafts them into lessons, memories, and a life well- loved.