I used to wish I was a scrapbooking kind of a mom, but I’m not. Each of us offers different things to our world and our people, and my offerings will simply never resemble something to be posted on Pinterest. I’m fine with that (now).
Instead of beautifully packaged books that they will treasure for years to come, I have an Instagram feed that is largely occupied by our highs and lows. Instead of perfectly scripted captions, I have this blog that is filled with ramblings of what God has taught and is teaching me, a partial record of our days.
I’ve often struggled with how much my family should overlap into the ministry I feel called into. I want to protect their privacy—both their stories and their anonimity. This isn't their call, they have their own. They didn’t sign up for this blog or Instagram, so I don’t want to blast their lives to the world (wide web) they didn’t choose to journey into (at least not yet). I don’t ever want my family to resent my vulnerability.
With that said, I have always felt a strong pull to share with you all. When this blog was just a baby and the followers few (in my insecure opinion at the time), my brother, leading innovator of all things online for ministries, would remind me: “Becky, the average church in America is 200 people. You have an above average sized church tuning in each time you post.” Those words gave me confidence to write then and also humbled and tendered me to you and caused me to cling to Jesus.
You can't undo something once you’ve posted it. It’s out there. Sure things can be deleted, but they are still heard. So I’m more selective of what and when I post than I once was.
If I’ve ever felt an “It’s time” from the Lord, in regards to blogging, it’s today. This series has been stirring for years:
I never started it because here didn’t feel like the best place to write letters to my daughters. I felt like maybe I should write these in a journal or something.
Then I thought of you, dear reader, dearest daughter (of King Jesus).
Some of you have had really crappy moms, others really awesome moms.
Some of you are my same age, others much younger, and others quite older.
All of us are daughters. All in need of a mother's voice.
So these letters to my daughters might be written with Karis, Moriah, and Chandler in mind but they are written with you in mind as well. You are daughters. Regardless of age or family background, you are a beloved daughter, the apple of God’s eye (Psalm 17:8). You are loved and cherished. I hope these words bring the comfort of a mother’s embrace (or the comfort a mother’s embrace should bring).
So I invite you into this series. If you are in need of mother’s voice, I pray mine brings healing to the places that ache. If you just need to be a daughter, I pray He speaks to you through these words. If you, being female, just need some practical advice, there's a place for you here.
You are welcome here my love (this is what I call my girls, and this is what I'll call you here).
Pull up a chair to our kitchen counter. You can count on the sink being filled with dirty dishes and crumbs under your chair. You can also count on a hot cup of cinnamon coffee with plenty of creamer and sugar, and, if I've made it to Trader Joe's that week, some Ginger Snap cookies to dip. I'll have Bethel music streaming on my iPhone and I'll lean in and share whatever the day's circumstance brings.
Remember, as I told Karis just this morning, there is nothing you could do that will change how much I love you. Nothing.