Wildflowers

I chronicled the story of my motherhood in just fifteen minutes last night.

Funny. It sure seemed a whole lot longer as I was living it.

A few months ago my dear husband volunteered for us to share our story with an adoption class at a local hospital. Somehow I ended up the one standing there alone in front of thirty-some prospective parents. I hadn't prepared anything, planning instead to share from the heart. I do know the story quite well, after all. The coordinator left me a thirty minute slot, and I was worried about running over. Fifteen minutes later, I had run out. Of words. And intelligible thoughts. And unintelligible thoughts.

Well, what can I say? I'm a writer, not a talker. Obviously I should have prepared something more than to rely on my heart. Live and learn. At least, I didn't keep them sitting there forever, blabbing on and on, right? Short and sweet and to the point.

I hope I had a point.

Anyway, I know Someone had a point last night. Someone knew that the last few days would be really pretty rotten for me. Someone knew that I would need to reflect and remember and recognize my life for what it is. To witness the blessedness of it all and wonder in awe at the gorgeous tapestry He is creating, in spite of my crooked ways. Even for just fifteen minutes.

Mother's Day is a tough one for me. And not because my husband doesn't do his darnedest to make it special. He does. I'm telling you, you will never go wrong marrying a man whose language of love is service. You may feel woefully inadequate at times, but you will always be pampered. And not just on Mother's Day.

I thought about writing a post about why this day is not my favorite, and then I remembered that I wrote it last year. The feelings and struggles are still there, much the same. That little girl of mine is on a path toward healing and ever so much better than she was a year ago, thanks be to God. But Mother's Day hits her hard too. It's virtually impossible not to get mad about a day that tells you to celebrate one mother half a world away who neglected and abandoned you and another mother here who still feels foreign after almost seven years. The heartache spews out like venom. I can't say that I blame her. Not at all.

So, God gave me this tremendous, uncomfortable opportunity to stand before a room of strangers and tell them of the wonders of His love. Because He knew how much I needed to hear it. To be reminded that this is a journey, my journey, and no matter how badly I may wander and feel lost and alone, He is there, guiding me, sometimes gently by the hand, sometimes yanking my arm almost out of the socket, making sure I stay on that path, strewing wildflowers in my way and hoping I notice them before they are trampled underfoot.

May I see the beauty and smell the sweetness of those wildflowers, every single one.