I wish I could tell you how many times I have returned here after a long day, sometimes in the middle of the chaos, waiting for the words to just spill out like rain drops and scatter beautifully. Too many to count. Too many moments where I’ve accepted a tiny dose of failure only because words wouldn’t come how I want. Too honest, too raw, too motherhood-oriented.
I’ve tried to enter the holy place I have here with Jesus, but I’m having a hard time just getting through the door. I am a mom to three boys. It means by the time I arrive here, I am dragging behind me the tantrum my middle child just threw, the explosive diaper I just changed, the yelling I just did. I am trying to drag through the door the instances that I’ve made a mistake or the times that make me exhausted. I can’t get to this holy place unless I leave it all at the door.
And that’s not easy. There isn’t a how-to on that one, on how to really feel worthy when I feel like I’m carrying everybody else with me. Dragging. Dragging.
The door isn’t wide enough.
It’s wide enough for just me. Because this is my holy place. The place where I get to leave the junk at the door and kneel, knowing that my worth isn’t found in the tantrums, diapers, obedience. My value isn’t found in the behavior of children or measured by the number of dishes I can wash in a day. It isn’t in my calling as a mom, as a woman, as a human. It’s here, in this holy place. This holy place where a holy God only sees His little girl. This place where He twirls me around and holds me tight. This place where nothing, not even the stuff I dragged with me, can keep me from Him.
This holy place. Where the sun shines and cleanses, the air flows and frees, the rain washes away.
I’m leaving it all at the door, Jesus. You are worthy; I am worthy. You are valuable; I am valuable. You are holy. I am holy.
In this holy place.