Hey so guess what? It’s summer and I’ve got a mere 3 and a half months until my due-date. Ordinarily I would kick back, suck on some brunch-nachos, and congratulate myself; but there’s a disturbance within the force, and lately I’ve been feeling that something’s a little…off.

(Disclaimer: I am tired. And I don’t mean “oh, cute pregnant woman who’s slightly out of breath once or twice a day.” I mean BONE freaking tired, more than I’ve ever been in my life. I can’t sleep at night and my legs feel like lead dipped in lead…so there’s that.)

I’m actually talking about my frame of mind–well, more accurately, the current state of my relationship with God. These past months have been so busy and I’ve been more-than-slightly preoccupied with a jam-packed schedule and pregnancy issues. I feel like it’s all I can do to physically make it through each and every hour of each and every day.

My friends and family tell me not to be too hard on myself. I bounce back and forth from being exhausted yet semi-thankful, to stone-cold cranky and straight ungrateful:

The pregnancy? I’m a kick-ass baby-grower and that’s just all there is to it.

Cheyenne? I’m angry at the entire state of West Virginia for taking her away.

Caleb? I barely get to see him since he’s always working on the house.

The kids? They’re always getting into things and making messes and driving me crazy.

Church? The pew hurts my back and I’m tired and I’m first-world hungry and I had to get up at the crack of dawn to comb my hair.


All I want to do is sleep.

But I keep thinking of the promises I made to God and the promises He’s made to me. He loves me. He watches over me. He will be with me wherever I go. One day He will take me out of this world where I am crying and bleeding and hurting, and stick me right up there in heaven by His side. And I won’t ever have to comb my hair again.

Here are some things that were never part of the deal, but that God has blessed me with nonetheless: My baby has been safe in my tummy for an astonishing 24 weeks. She is kicking and flipping and growing, and that is most certainly NOT because of anything I’ve done. Cheyenne has an almost-free ride to college. The kids are happy and healthy and home from school now–I’m far from lonely. Caleb is a faithful, hardworking husband who is breaking his back to build the house of my dreams for our family. We are surrounded by friends from our church family who are caring and supportive and selfless.

I still can’t eat cheese grits in the middle of a church pew, but it’s only a mild annoyance.

The time to be close to God is now more than ever. I cling tightly to Him in storms but I tend to drift off on my own when the water is calm. The farther I float away, the harder it is to swim back–and it’s crazy how fast that happens.

I feel convicted, and for those of you who aren’t fluent in crazy-Christian-speak, I mean that I feel burdened and guilty. No, I’m not a terrible person as defined by worldly standards. I teach Sunday school. I’m nice-ish to my family. I’m polite to waitresses. I obey the speed limit. I return my library books. I restrain myself from going Solange on fools in public. But God is wanting so much more from me, and lately I’ve been too lazy to take His calls.

NOW is when I should be praying, giving, serving, and loving beyond my human ability. Now is when I should be exercising patience with the children I begged God for so much. Now is when I should be thanking my guts out for a husband who works hard and who loves me despite my perpetual bed-head. Now is when I should sit, riveted, in the church pew, soaking up every take-away and then spewing it out upon whoever God puts in my face afterward.

And so, lucky for you guys, I do have the mental capacity to remember events from 2 days ago, and here’s something my pastor said that stood out to me: We are all missionaries. Really. We’re not doctors or teachers or mechanics that also tell people about Jesus from time to time. We’re missionaries who happen to be doctors or teachers or mechanics. So that means I? Am a missionary who happens to be a worn-out pregnant artist with a blog. I will never be perfect, but pray for me that I always try my best to do the more that God wants, rather than settle for the good enough that the world says is ok.


About Toni

Mom. Wife. Artist. I take care of the kids and pretend to clean sometimes. I can cook spagetti and I have never been arrested. View all posts by Toni

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