Tattered capes

Dear Single Brave Mom,

I love you.  I looked up to you as you raised your children alone.  In heart wrenching honesty,  I never wanted to be you.  

I prayed for you.  I admired your strength and courage.  In my worst nightmares, I never dreamed of walking in your footsteps.

You were my hero, but I didn't want to wear your tattered cape.

I scribble tonight.  Pen on paper.  My heart spilling all over the place.  Trying to catch every drop with syllables.  

Brave moms, we talked together and prayed.  We barbecued in my backyard and our children played.  You held me as my heart ached and the tears refused to stop.  You took my hand as I began the same journey.  You were there.  Holding me up.  

We talk about heroes and legends in our society.  But you never stand in the spotlight.  Silently, day by day, you raise your children in a less than ideal world.  You pull the all nighters, every night.  You wipe little tears and hide your own.

Thank you.  Thank you for loving me when I had no idea what you walked through on a daily basis.  Thank you for forgiving my ignorance.  Thank you for opening your hearts and homes when I needed tears.  Thank you for being you in the midst of the ridiculous expectations hurled at you. every.  single.  day.  

Your strength encourages me.  I can.  

Your grit nudges me forward.  I can do this.  

Your hope infuses me.  I can do this with joy.

To all single brave moms, including my own that raised me seated in a wheelchair.  thank you.  Because of you, I can walk this road bravely with my head held high.  Tattered cape and all.

Your Story Through Mine

The stories shout loud.  Encourage.  Build up.  But the final chapters were always written before the story published. 

What if?  What if someone walking  through the darkest time of her life.  Walking, clinging, crying out, holding on for dear life to her Jesus, wrote.  Picked up a pen and bravely shared the story before the final chapter came into existence.  In the middle of the ick, the vomit of the enemy all over her life.  A woman choosing to dance in the victory now ... but not seeing it with her own eyes, yet.

Craziness.  Transparency.  Messy faith.  

Can God pour out His glory through anything?  Can I splash others with how God is carrying, lifting, providing, filling in the midst of the all that surrounds me?  Can His story unfolding in my life, bring peace to another drifting in a storm of their own?

Some may call it absurd.  To open up my life wide.  Before the hope I cling to becomes reality.  If my story reflects HIs glory before the final chapter is written.  If realness enables just one person to cling to His promises, stand strong, let nothing move them ... 

Breathe deep Sarah.  Pick up your pen.  Crack open the book.  Abba, author of life, lavish Your love and write Your story through mine.