Dearest Daughters

Finding Your Voice

A NEW SONG IN THE WIND > “From whom the whole body, joined and knit together by what every joint supplies, according to the effective working by which every part does its share, causes growth of the body for the edifying of itself in love.” (Eph. 4:16) DEAREST DAUGHTERS, Today I’m going to take a little different route with my letter. It’s nearly Christmas time, and during this season we remember all kinds of stories that have made it special for us, not just stories of this season, but the relationships that have made us who we are. Those relationships often come together again at Christmas, like a tapestry—threads returning, crossing over and under, making the fabric of our lives complete. Today I’m thinking of one that shaped me, and I want to share one with you. The fair was over, and a blasting cold front charged through Texas with the zeal and strength of a soldier. The last pecan leaves shook free from the limbs shading our yard, leaving us exposed to the low winter sun and the strong northern wind. You older children tumbled and played in the yard. This fair had been different than some of the previous ones. Some of you came down with the flu during the fair, and I rushed back and forth between music, my booth, and tending to you over at Grandma’s house next door to the fairgrounds, where you lay shivering and feverish. One of you cried, “Mommy, I can’t be here. I’ve got to be at the fair!” I cried with you. After months of waiting, of sanding wooden spoons and preparing, you were missing your favorite time of year—and worse, you weren’t getting to sing in the choir. Music was the highlight of our family life. Singing together, especially with Daddy, was a joy. Daddy and I first got to know each other through music, singing together on my parents’ front porch or gathered around his parents’ living room piano. Josiah, Uncle Philip, Daddy, and I began singing together when I was sixteen. We never knew where that journey would take us, but I loved to sing. I had never been more honored than the day Josiah asked me to join his little band. It had been him, Daddy, and Philip, and he wanted Philip to play the piano and me to be part of the vocal group. We sang in various places—first just for fun, then for relatives, friends, nursing homes, senior groups. It grew and grew. We all ended up getting married. More joined the group. Life moved on. I married your dad, and that common ground of music grew into a shared life of love, relationships, and children. As the years went by, Regina joined our music group. I knew right away that she was more gifted than I was. I marveled at her voice, but clung fiercely to my own place as well. She was an alto; I was a soprano. That should have worked. I didn’t need to be jealous. But voices aren’t that neatly divided. There was overlap. I loved Regina, so it was hard to feel anything but admiration for her. When she sang, it melted my heart. Still, over time, some of the songs I sang became songs Regina sang. No one could deny it—she did them better. And yet, in my heart, I always thought, With a little more practice, a little more time, I could have gotten it right. It wouldn’t have sounded like her, but it would have had its own touch. Those silent battles went on in my mind more often than I like to admit. You see, while I had a nice voice, I had a problem: I did not have natural rhythm. While Regina could throw herself into the feeling of a song, I was counting measures. Tapping my toe. Watching for cues. I did fine in orchestra and choir where there was direction, but solos often filled me with tension. So I worked harder. Practiced more. Labored over music, trying to overcome what didn’t come naturally, hoping there wouldn’t be a need for someone else to take my place. But the one place music was always free was with my children. I sang to you every night. We sang at bedtime, during family devotion, when Daddy played guitar, and later when some of you played the piano. Music there was joy, not striving. The fair ended. You recovered. And then the sickness hit me. I lay tossing and turning with fever, headache, and that wretched winter cough. It was just three weeks until our Christmas concert. Part of my responsibility was helping plan the songs. I lay in the recliner scratching titles onto paper, wondering if I would even be able to sing Go Tell It on the Mountain or O Come, O Come, Emmanuel as planned. That night, the house was quiet. Daddy slept. The baby rested in his cradle. Outside, the wind howled, and I could hear sheep bleating in the distance. Suddenly words formed in my mind—stronger than thought, weightier than effort. You shepherds, be still. You sheep on the hill…how the wind blows— From where; no one knows. Like a long captive dream, a faint melody I felt as if I were standing on a hill the night angels announced Christ’s birth. I lowered the footrest, stepped into the living room, and looked out at the wind whipping leaves through the darkness. I grabbed a pen and paper and began to write. There’s a new song in the wind tonight, Oh Jerusalem, rise up and sing… Line after line poured out, and I scrawled them out as fast as I could. At last, I crawled back into bed and waited for morning. Daddy felt something in the words, too. When my fever broke, I called Uncle Philip. He played, I listened, and suddenly there was a song. More than that, he worked with me to sing it. And for once, my rhythm wasn’t too bad. I was proud. I couldn’t wait to share it. But when I sang it for Daddy and Josiah, the power I had felt in the night wasn’t there. When I finished, they looked at each other. They didn’t say anything, but I knew that look. I practiced more. I prayed more. I adjusted. I tried again the next night. Still the same look. “Maybe next year,” Josiah said doubtfully. On the way home, Daddy asked, “What would you think about Regina trying it?” The question landed hard. I had written the song. I wanted my voice in it. But I went home and prayed, and God was there. I knew those words were His, not mine. And if Regina could express them better, love required that I step aside. I called her. “Would you try my song?” I asked. When I heard her sing, I knew. This was right. More than right—it was God. I didn’t feel jealous. I almost wept with gratitude. I felt as though my voice had expanded, as though her lungs had become mine. I was singing through her mouth, or rather, God was singing through us both, together. What I had tried to give expression to, she released. When Daddy and Josiah heard it, they loved it. And on the night of the concert, as the hall filled and Regina stepped forward to sing— There’s a new song in the wind tonight… Her head thrown back with abandon, her arm outstretched. —we rose to sing with her. And not only that, but the audience rose to cheer—not just for the voice they heard, but for the voice in the wind, for a new song, a song of unity, of God’s voice singing through His people. So bid the violence to cease, now dawns the kingdom of peace. Earth and heaven rejoice at the sound of a mighty rushing wind, because there was a new song in the wind that night— A song of peace, unity, and harmony. A song where no one quite knew where one gift ended and another began among the people called to be Zion. And this, my dearest daughters, is what I want you to understand about finding your voice. We do not find it by competing. We do not find it by guarding our gifts. We do not find it by insisting that our sound be heard above others. We find our voice through love—through relationship—through yielding ourselves to something larger than our own expression. Sometimes your voice will come through your own mouth. And sometimes it will come through the voice of another. When love is present, there is no loss—only multiplication. What is given is not diminished; it is enlarged. That night, as Regina sang, I did not disappear. I was gathered in. My voice had found its place—not by being louder, but by being joined. This is how the body grows, joined and knit together by what every part supplies. This is how love builds itself up. This is how Zion sings. And this is how you will find your voice. So let us give voice to the Child born in a manger, Who gave up His throne to give us a place in His song. With all my love, Mom

Sing It into Their Bones

> That they should set their hope in God, and not forget the works of God… (Psalm 78:7) MY DEAREST DAUGHTERS, As we rolled out the tubs, trunks, and boxes of holiday decorations this year, my thoughts returned, as they usually do, to the days when all of my children were little. The day fell, as it always does, on the Monday after our Homestead Fair. We come home tired and happy, the children all a little disappointed that the fair is over, yet filled with great anticipation—because now it is time to set up Christmas. This year, a real cold front blew in on that very day, and suddenly it all felt wonderfully authentic. Four-year-old Ari warmed the softest places in my heart with his jubilation as we opened each box. Out came the nativity set, the manger, the wise men, a simple bell, a box full of pinecones—and with every piece he squealed with delight, leaped up and down, and recounted an entire story connected to that object from the year before, a story I had long forgotten. But I remembered, too—only my memories traveled much farther back than last year. I remembered you, Helen, setting up the tiny people in the Christmas village. I remembered Blair helping me untangle the cords of lights. With every decoration in my hands, I felt so close to each of you, held together by a day that has stayed nearly the same, year after year (except for one Christmas lost to the flu—but that was a memory, too). Each piece stitched us back together again. I have been thinking a great deal about memory these past months, and I feel as though the Lord has been speaking to me about it. I want to share these thoughts with you, because I believe they matter—not only for this holiday season, but for every season of life. Making memories with your children is not an insignificant thing. It is a shaping force—of their development, their identity, the trajectory of their lives, and the soul of your family as a whole. I have come to see this more clearly with every year I mother. Our friend and psychotherapist, Rita Jreijiri, once said that memory is not a camera—it is an editor. Memory is fed by emotion. If our emotions are bitter, we will carry bitter memories, edited and replayed through those same lenses. But if our emotions are loving, joyful, and steady, those memories will expand and multiply, like the loaves and fishes in Jesus’ hands. That realization is both humbling and weighty. Our children will carry what we build. A shared experience becomes a memory because it is bound to meaning and relationship, and what is bound that way tends to endure. I have not done this perfectly, but I have tried, intentionally, to anchor our lives in shared rhythms. Daily story time from the very beginning. Scripture memory. Prayer. Always family meals. And the longer I have mothered, the more intentional I have become. I even laugh sometimes and say reading aloud has become my near-religion—morning school reading, toddler reading, and nightly story reading. Again and again and again. Family dinner has always been paramount. We gather around the table for shared food and shared joy: fresh warm bread, a set table, napkins and silverware, sometimes a candle or a sprig from the garden. A meal served as a gift of love, prepared with intention, offered with a prayer that this, too, will become a memory that shapes my child’s future. As your father and I have grown older, our appetites have grown smaller, and for a season I let breakfast, for myself, fade. But after hearing Ruth Ann Zimmerman speak about the sacredness of family meals, I felt called to bring family breakfast back as a regular feature that included me. And so we did. The children now wake to warm smells, to a set table, to music in the kitchen, and I see again how deeply these simple things matter. Another memory-anchor you know well is family devotion time—gathered in the schoolroom, singing, prayer, reciting Scripture, reading aloud, each in turn sharing a thanksgiving to God or someone. These are not just moments; they are the threads that bind hearts. Fashion your lives around things that happen daily, weekly, yearly. This is why Christmas has remained powerful in a fragmented world; it is still one of the great collective memory-makers. But why leave this sacred experience only to Christmas? Family walks. One-on-one time. Gardening together. Playing games. Years ago, when you older children began attending Wednesday night youth meetings and the younger ones were sad to stay behind, I told them, “Every Wednesday is Mommy Day.” We folded laundry together, worked in the garden, rode bikes, took walks, went swimming, played games—something every single Wednesday. I tried to make it feel like a really special evening just for them. Just a few months ago, as I walked with Nicolas, now thirteen, he told me that year was his favorite of his whole life—the anticipation of Wednesday, waiting to see what surprise I would “cook up.” I teared up as he told me. And I resolved again: memory matters. You probably remember the true story of I Am Regina—about the two little girls captured in the Penn Massacre and carried off into captivity among the Native Americans. Nearly nine years later, after a mass release and treaty, the children were brought back. But many of them no longer remembered their families. They could not even remember their own language. Even their own parents couldn’t recognize them. Yet one mother walked along the line of released children singing a hymn in German—the song she had sung every night over her little girl before she was taken. And suddenly, one girl broke from the crowd and began to sing along—in German. She couldn’t speak a word of English or German, but memory and music led her toward home and her mother. I sang “Jesus Loves Me” to each of you every night when you were little. And as you know, your autistic brother began to sing that song three years before he could ever speak a full sentence. Long before language came, music and memory were alive in him. So create these memories knowing this: even if a child ever becomes lost, confused, wounded, wandering—those shared memories may be the very thing God uses to lead them home. The word re-member means to be made a member again. And that is exactly what memory does. It ties us back into our family, our relationships, our church, our God. That’s what I feel every time I open the Christmas boxes. With every decoration, every pinecone, every tiny wooden figure—I am “re-membered” back into you. So, create memories for your children that will always tie them to you, to their Lord, to their church, and to the land. Let them be re-membered into God’s people, God’s creation, and God Himself for their whole lives. Be intentional. Be inspired. Be faithful. And be, always, a memory-making mother. With all my love, Mom

Owned by Love

> You are not your own… therefore glorify God. (1 Corinthians 6:19–20) MY DEAREST DAUGHTERS, There is a kind of weariness that comes not from work, but from striving. Striving is what a soul does when she’s not yet sure who she is or where she belongs. A woman who knows she’s loved and placed—rooted, named, and claimed—can work very hard without becoming overwhelmed. But the woman who has not yet accepted her God-given identity keeps grasping for it, trying to prove her worth through achievement, performance, or admiration. Striving is often the sign of a heart that doesn’t feel at rest in fully embracing the definitions and parameters of her place. Where do we belong? In our culture, people are proud to say, “I’m a doctor, and I belong to Ascension Medical Group,” or, “I’m an attorney, and I belong to this law firm.” And there is nothing wrong with that. God calls men and women into many vocations—to heal, to teach, to build. These callings can be holy when they are received as a service and stewardship of the kingdom of God. But to say with the same confidence, “I am a wife, and I belong to my family”—that often feels improper. Too simple. Too dependent. Too unaccomplished. Why? I believe it is because the human heart, broken by the Fall, has a tendency to seek identity in what it can achieve rather than who it belongs to and the gifts it has been given. We are much more comfortable belonging to institutions we choose than to relationships that choose us. We are tempted to anchor our worth in titles we earn instead of in covenants we keep. And that is where the deeper danger lies—not in vocation itself, but in locating our identity outside of relationships ordered according to God’s transcendent design. The ancient temptation is not merely to work—it is to self-define. The quest to define oneself apart from God-given belonging is, at its root, a quest for godhood. It is the same sin that caused Lucifer to fall. He was created with perfect beauty and wisdom—yet the place he was given was not large enough for him. Coveting the place of God, he fell, and became the driving force behind every human attempt to author identity apart from submission to God’s design. Without me realizing it, that same impulse once lived in me. The moment I came to see it, years ago, was perhaps the most liberating experience of my life, a moment that freed me from aimless striving and frustration. After the birth of my third child, I felt I had reached the breaking point. Three children three and under—and two hands. Before that, I prided myself in being put-together, punctual, scheduled, and organized. Suddenly there was chaos everywhere, and I was embarrassed. I tried to hide from your daddy that things were falling apart. One evening he left the house to take care of something. All three babies ended up screaming in my lap, and I was crying with them. And then Dad walked back in; he’d forgotten something. He took one look and asked, “What’s wrong?” I blurted out, “I’m failing in everything, and everybody is unhappy about it!” He was in a hurry. He grabbed what he came for and opened the door to leave. But then he paused, turned around, and said: “Honey, there’s a big difference between doing ‘the mothering thing’ and being a mother.” And he left. But God stayed, and in that moment, I felt Him speak to my heart: “There’s a big difference between doing ‘the Christian thing’ and being a Christian. You have to be owned by this—possessed by it. You cannot live in a capsule of self, full of your own ambitions, and serve from there with joy. This is where I test how much the kingdom matters to you: right here with these little ones who are yours but really Mine.” I looked at my children crying in my arms and suddenly felt that Helen, Blair, and Andrew owned me. And God owned me. And instead of suffocating, it was comforting—clarifying. I felt that I belonged to them and to the purpose of God—completely. And then came an even more astonishing realization: If God possessed me, then I possessed His purpose. The destiny He intended to bring about through our family was mine. And if it failed, I would feel it in the deepest part of me, because it mattered more than my own ambitions ever could. I had been honored to participate in what God was doing. I didn’t need to survive it. I needed to seize it with passion. That sudden conviction that I belonged entirely to this calling was the most liberating moment of my life. I felt power. Not escape, not independence—power to change identities. I could stop doing some mothering on the side while quietly seeking another identity for myself. Instead, I thought: > This is what I was born to do— to bring these children into the kingdom of God, to help them find their place in the temple of God, and to be part of building that temple. I am owned by this. I belong to it. I will never try to opt out of it. And I will give it everything I have. I knew that if any of you—now eight instead of three—were to find your purpose in God, if even one became a Moses or an Esther, then by loving you with my whole heart, I would have changed the world. Your Granddaddy Blair discussed in his book Knowing God by Name that when God purposed to change the world, He chose one man and taught him what it meant to be a father and a family. Coming out of pagan Ur, Abraham didn’t know how. Sarah didn’t either. But God taught them. And Scripture reinforces identity through relationship: * Sarah, the wife of Abraham * Eliezer, the servant of Abraham * Isaac, the son of Abraham Each one surrendered personal identity into God’s purpose, and in doing so, found identity. And then there is Hagar the Egyptian. She never laid down her own Egyptian identity. She never surrendered her place into God’s household. And so she mothered the work of the flesh—a “wild donkey of a man” who persecuted the promise. This is the secret—the one that set me free: Motherhood works when identity is surrendered into God’s purpose. Family becomes joy when belonging becomes calling. The kingdom of God begins to come into a home when every competing identity bows. And when it does, you will find both the joy and the power to do it. With all my love, Mom

The First Image of God They Ever See

> He tends His flock like a shepherd. He gathers the lambs in His arms and carries them close to His heart; He gently leads those that have young. — Isaiah 40:11 DEAREST DAUGHTERS, Especially in the early years, we teach our children not just by what we say, but by who we are. Children are mirrors. But they do not simply imitate—they absorb. Their earliest sense of safety, identity, and worth comes from reflection—how we reflect love, how we carry ourselves, how we live. Your child will reflect your love, imitate your surrender, and mirror your nurture. He will be joyful if you are joyful. She will be secure if you are grounded. They will be strong if you are strong—or fearful if you are anxious. And they will not only mirror our strengths—they will mirror our weaknesses. A cynical tone toward your husband will become the tone they later use toward you. A sigh of overwhelm at the duties of life will teach them that life is “too much,” instead of a privilege to be embraced with gratitude. A distracted heart—always half-present, half-elsewhere—will teach them to disconnect from you, from their father, and from God. Children do not only copy what we hope they’ll remember; they absorb what we never intended to teach. But take heart—because the power of repentance, tenderness, and beginning again shapes them just as deeply as our failures do. Even our imperfections can become teachers when grace finishes the lesson. Just as we are made in the image of God, our children pour themselves into the mold of our example. If your child is to understand the church—the Bride of Christ—let them first see it in you. When you demonstrate what it means to be a bride to your husband, your children begin to understand what it means for the church to belong to Christ. The attentiveness with which you listen to your spouse becomes the attentiveness they’ll learn to offer others—and to God. The beauty with which you prepare a meal shows them how to prepare their hearts for the Lord. The surrender with which you lay down your own agenda to come under your husband’s mission teaches them what it means to yield to Christ. The transparency with which you speak in love shows them how we relate to God—with honesty, reverence, and trust. Your willingness to offer yourself as a living sacrifice—holding nothing back, without reluctance—makes Christ’s sacrifice real to them. I saw this growing up. At night, I would lie in bed and hear my father pray. He would walk the floor, whispering, rejoicing, at times groaning or weeping—words I couldn’t always understand, but a presence I could feel. The Spirit of God passed through the wall and into my room, and I knew—without anyone explaining—that God was real. He was near. And I learned how to listen by watching my mother, in the way she paused. The way she answered. The way she touched the hearts of those who reached out. She didn’t dismiss or rush. She leaned in. And because she listened, I learned how to reach out. Then came a time in my own mothering when I had to learn all this again. Your brother, still small, had already been diagnosed with autism. For many years, it felt nearly impossible to find even a square inch of common ground—to understand how he thought, what frightened him, or how he made sense of the world. His responses baffled me. His silence sometimes broke me. But through that long, humbling journey, I began to learn a deeper dimension of love. In our efforts to connect with him, I began looking for even the smallest thread that could bind us together. I had once read that mirroring your child—literally copying their actions—might draw their attention. So when he sorted blocks, I sorted blocks. When he crawled on the floor, I crawled too, hoping for even a glance. One of the few things that brought him comfort was crawling inside a pillow sham—pillow and all—and rolling under the bed. It didn’t make sense to me. But it made sense to him. He needed that pressure, that cocooned stillness, that control over space and sensation. It was how he created a world that felt safe. And so one day, when he was upset and began to disappear into that familiar cocoon, I grabbed a second pillow, climbed into another sham, and crawled under the bed beside him. I didn’t say anything. But he looked at me with big, brown eyes, and then . . . he laughed! And in that laughter, something opened. A bridge was built. A gap was closed. In that moment, I understood just a little of what it meant to be a mother after Christ’s heart. To lay aside dignity, comprehension, and ease. To clothe myself in my child’s world. To meet him where he was, because that’s what Christ did for us. He came to where we were—when we were far off. He clothed Himself in our weakness, our grief, our limits. He didn’t wait for us to rise to Him. He stooped down and lifted us. These small acts of empathy, of laying down control to gain connection, are not peripheral to motherhood. They are its sacred center. And yet, this calling is too great to carry alone. That’s the point. You were never meant to mother without God. He doesn’t ask you to be divine. He asks you to be surrendered. Dependent on Him. Rooted in His Spirit. Anchored in His Word. Let your children watch you pause. Let them feel you draw near. Let them hear you weep and see you worship. Let your hands be holy in the mundane places of the day, because you are not just raising children. You are raising worshipers. Image-bearers. Heirs to a promise older than time. So let them look through you—and see the face of God. > “And we all, with unveiled face, beholding as in a mirror the glory of the Lord, are being transformed into the same image from glory to glory.” — 2 Corinthians 3:18 Love, Mom

When Love Becomes a Life

> He tends His flock like a shepherd. He gathers the lambs in His arms and carries them close to His heart; He gently leads those that have young. — Isaiah 40:11 DEAREST DAUGHTERS, If we are called to be our children’s first windows to God, reflections of His love, then how do we mother in a way that shows them His face? If God is love, and we are made in His image, then we, too, must become love. Not a vague feeling, but a living, breathing presence in our children’s daily lives. They must not only be loved by us; they must see that love radiating through us in how we speak, how we serve, how we forgive, and how we endure. If they are to understand the comfort of God, they must first feel it rocking in our arms. In Isaiah 66, the Lord says, “As a mother comforts her child, so will I comfort you.” God Himself compares His tenderness to the way a mother carries her baby on her hip and bounces him on her knees (Isa. 66:12-13). If our children are to experience God’s attentiveness, they must see it in how we listen. The Psalms say the Lord bends low to hear our cries (Ps. 116:2). Do they see us do the same? We must be His hands—clothing, feeding, holding, comforting. If God is holy, then holiness must be more than rules or rituals. It must shape how we live: how we carry ourselves in unnoticed places, how we speak when no one is listening, how we repent when God deals with us, how we show reverence in the hidden parts of the day. If God is powerful, let our children see His strength most clearly in our weakness. In how we keep showing up. In how we rise with joy even when we’re tired. In how we lift our heads after He reproves us. A mother who leans on God allows His strength to become visible. Anointing takes the place of exhaustion. Faith steadies fear. Grace rises again after failure. If God is mighty to save, then we reflect that might when we stand firm, when we go to war against every thought, every attitude, every distraction that seeks to harm our children’s hearts. This is how they begin to know that God is a rescuer. Even science confirms what Scripture has always said: a mother’s presence in the early years is not sentimental, it is essential. God created the brain as surely as He created the soul, and everything in its design echoes what we know in our spirit—that children need closeness, stability, and responsiveness in order to thrive. During the first three years of life, the brain forms more than a million neural connections per second. Those early interactions shape not just emotion, but learning, language, resilience, even identity. A mother’s presence is not a luxury. It is how God made the human soul to grow. This calling is sacred. It is not only spiritual, but physiological. And it begins with you. I want to tell you a story I can’t forget. Years ago, your dad and I were driving home late one night down Halbert Lane. Just ahead of us, the car in front hit a raccoon cub, one of three trailing behind their mother. It didn’t yet die, but it was wounded and immobilized, crying on the pavement. We slammed the brakes, trying not to hit the others, and watched as the scene unfolded in our headlights. The mother had already crossed the road with her two surviving babies. But when she saw our headlights, she paused. Then she did something that moved me to tears. She ran back into the oncoming traffic. She darted into the road, grabbed the injured cub, still crying, still writhing, and dragged it to the side of the road where she huddled with all three little ones. I lay awake that night thinking about her. Not because I’m sentimental about raccoons (they’ve raided our eggs enough times, as you well know), but because I couldn’t stop thinking about that mothering instinct, that single-minded, God-given drive to preserve life no matter the cost. If an animal can stare into the face of danger and still run out to save her young, what must God have placed inside the heart of a human mother? What strength? What courage? What zealous fire did He entrust to us? I want that fire. I want to be the kind of woman who sees the onslaught of the world and still steps out into the road, believing God will help me carry my children to safety. You may ask yourself, Why do I want to be a mother? I believe there are three reasons why women choose this path. The first is the challenge. A primal knowing that your body was made to bear life. A deep curiosity: Can I do it? Do I have what it takes? The second is purpose—a sense that motherhood is not incidental but eternal. As Christians, we believe God continues His work through families. When we raise children, we don’t just build homes; we build the Kingdom. Passing on belief and conviction becomes an act of faith. And then there is the third reason—love. I’m not talking about love in theory, but love that reshapes you, a love that stretches, grows, humbles, and transfigures you. When I was newly engaged, I believe it was primarily the first two reasons that drew me to motherhood. I wanted children—maybe a few—and I felt both the challenge and the purpose. Could I really do it? But once I held my first child—you, Helen—everything changed. That third reason—love—took over, consuming me. It transformed me. I realized I had never known the full capacity of my heart until I became a mother. Something in me awakened. I wanted to go to the farthest edges of love, to discover how far it could stretch and how deep it could reach. I wanted to increase love—in myself, in others, in the world around me. I wanted to show my children what love looks like when it is lived, when it grows from the soil of surrender and sends down deep roots into the soul of a mother. I know I haven’t done this perfectly, but I have been utterly changed by trying my best. After twenty-seven years of mothering, I can tell you this: Motherhood will ask more of you than you ever expected. But it will give you back more than you ever knew you could hold. Now it’s your turn. Let the holy fire of godly motherhood burn bright in you. With all my love, Mom