The rain drips off of the metal roof listlessly, quietly, steadily. The antithesis of my life at this point. There is no quiet to raising eleven children, unless (like right now) they are all asleep. But in the dark and the peace at 5:30am, after my hero has left for work, I can gather my energy and prepare for the starting gun- the first child awakening for the day. From that point on, you just go go go, there is no stop, no down time.
My husband and I have been married for two months. Maybe I will tell you all of our story one day, maybe I won’t. What you do need to know is that sometimes, no matter how hard you try to do the right thing, life deals you a dirty hand and you get to make the best of it. And when you put your best into God’s hands and stumble and fall on His mercy, He has this uncanny ability to take your meager best and then turn it into something so glorious that it blows you away. That is our story- the story of pain and brokenness and struggle becoming wholeness and joy. My husband had five brown eyed babies when we got married. I had six blue eyed ones. Life as a single parent is a crucible; the pressure and heat from being father and mother to these precious souls and knowing that you are failing miserably because your task is impossible, this heat brings to the surface every single impurity of soul and mind, puts it on display in front of God and everybody, and leaves you feeling like there is precious little left. Maybe familiarity with the ragged edge of desperation makes me uniquely suited to the mad scramble that blending two large families creates. Maybe it just certifies me as crazy. Regardless, I sit here in the quiet, sip my coffee, pray a little… and wait for the pitter patter of feet that launches my day into its usual insanity.