I wrote this column weeks ago, but it was a good reminder for me during a challenging week.
An excerpt: “I’m tempted to see my maternal missteps as global pronouncements of my failure to nurture my children right. But my children see no such thing. They forgive and they forget. Their mercy pours down on me like the spring rain that came later that same week we went looking for rabbits. I hate when my raw edges are exposed and I fall short of the mother I want to be, the mother I am called to be. But it’s my children who smooth out those edges by their very love for imperfect me and their knack at seeing things—good, hopeful things—that I don’t.”
Please read the rest here.