Lord, my rock you've given suffering and opportunity. I take them both with sadness and faith.

I should be soaring but I am touring these bitter graves instead.

Rest is a Person

This fire is unlike anything I have ever experienced. When a doctor tells you that half of your unborn child's heart is underdeveloped and dying, it is an atomic bomb on your entire life.

Before my husband and I were dating, we shared that we’d individually decided to live with open hands in surrender to God. Living open-handed has its joys and benefits. The flip side of living out this creed isn’t so romantic. Loss and pain inevitably weave themselves into the story.

I often feel like a wide-eyed little girl overwhelmed by all that God has placed in her feeble little hands.

What if we don't feel jolly? What if we don't feel alright? What if we're drowning alone on this silent night?

Desert sands cannot feed a man

My ember glow you’d never know

My vision’s always been hazy

You miss so much when I am standing right in front of you

The moon is up reflecting the Sun you squandered

Knowable yet uncomprehendable

My Father, my Friend, these 31 days are yours

Your Word came each vowel and syllable sharpened and right

You arrived quietly on a Sunday morning. Sunday happens to be my favorite day of the week. Of all the billions of people on this planet, only a tiny atom of them will recognize your coming. I will place on your shoulders great expectations of which I cannot help.

I can't say I like this process. It makes me incredibly uncomfortable. Sometimes it is downright painful. But no one ever said death by fire was a pleasant experience.

This open letter is born out of my observations and conversations with family and friends who are mothers. It is the brainchild of a woman, not yet a mother, who sees the burden your glorious role is on you.