I build.

a tiny Marabelle and me.

I'm a builder.

I didn't know it before tonight, and even if my heart knew it, she kept it a secret, only to be disclosed on a night like tonight, when my ears would be gentle enough to listen. When my voice is the only one heard, when my husband is working late. When the sun's clocked out, on this side of the world. When my two little ones are sweetly resting underneath their blankets, one in her big girl bed, my boy nuzzled beside me, both beneath this shingled roof, directly below the stars. When I have time to spend attending to that which is mine. My heart waited for a night like tonight to share her secret.

Things have been challenging, partly because life likes to be difficult, partly because I like to be annoyingly rough on myself. It almost makes sense my heart chose to speak tonight, when I'm weary with an exhausted and sick spirit, it's as if she waited for my guard to be down. She waited for the moment when she knew I wouldn't have the energy or the will to fight back.

As I lay here, recollecting myself from my day spent wiping noses and changing diapers, singing songs that make absolutely no sense, kissing ow-ies and making them all better, cleaning up leaky sippy cups and messy floors, folding laundry multiple times after little hands let themselves in, and addressing the mound of dishes that seems to be never-ending, you can't help but hope and pray that it's all seen, someway, somehow.

Not by facebook, or twitter, or instagram, or whatever else. But seen, really seen.

And it's then when she spoke. This soft heart of mine, she spoke. "You're a builder. You build," she said.

After listening and reading some seriously touching perspectives, including Nicole Johnson's insightful imagery shared here, I started to see.

As a mother, so much of our work, our days, our struggles, our triumphs, our love, goes unseen. Especially by the one person who desperately wants to see it the most, ourselves. We often ask ourselves questions related to these, "Where did this day go?" or "What did I accomplish today?" All the while, our hearts are waiting for a quiet moment to whisper, "You built, woman. You built."

We build castles, cathedrals, temples, palaces. We build fortresses that take years, sometimes centuries to complete. We build beautiful dwelling places, ones where blood, sweat, and tears accent the mortar. Sometimes we build because we have to, and other times because we really, truly want to. But even when we feel the worst about our efforts or ourselves, we still build.

We may not be around to see the finished product, to stand before the completed castle and stare with awe-struck wonder at all that came to be, but I hope it's a warm place, with stained glass, and plenty of windows. 

I hope it's the kind of warm where cozy consumes you. I hope there's plenty of stained glass to show how perfectly the light of the sun uniquely sparkles when it bounces off of different hues. I hope there are windows, so many windows, enough windows to remind all those who dwell there, to venture, to reach, to step out. And I hope they feel love, not just a broken love from this imperfect heart of mine, but the love of God who's the only other one who would have seen the entire build, every single stone laid, from start to finish.

I can't promise I'll be easier on myself, or that I've miraculously seen the light and will never turn back or face another dark moment. But after being a mom for almost two years {cannot believe Marabelle's almost 2!} I can honestly say I can see a little more clearly than before. And I guess that's what building is all about. Having a clearer vision with every passing brick. Years go by and people will see a building but forget the builder. The castle will long outlive it's maker, so you hope the builder found purpose in her work through it all, and that she knew how worth it, all her hard work is, and will someday be. For little do I know that when I feel alone, I have His company, and every single second, tired or energized, defeated or determined, I build.

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