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I’ve felt that nagging knot.
Tossed and turned in blankets of angst.
Brooded dark in the remnant hours.
Envied steady breath rising and falling beside.
Reflected on a disappearing day.
Rehearsed for an encore,
And begged for silence from all the voices.

Foreboding thoughts wrap words I can’t shake loose.
Well-meaning others whirl a mind-muddying dervish.
I’m their mother, but sometimes I just don’t know.
Can’t hear for all the clamor.
Can’t sift the best from good.
How do we walk these entrusted souls from baby to brink of “becoming”?
Shape wills? Mold might? Hold on? Let go?

And the voice comes…
Where are your hands?
Because both of my hands on small shoulders will never safely steer this course.
Place one in the hand of the One, all-wise.
Gripped by Love.
Steadied by Mercy.
Held both fast and free.
And guide them with the other, always and only to Jesus.
Hold loosely as a mama’s heart can bear.
They are arrows. Yes?
Meant to soar, not stay.
Whisper words of life.
Let Him write the story.
And rest.