Vivi Abbott Walker and Butter Mums

Day 11 & 12

Okay, okay, I missed a day – almost two, in fact. If you knew what those days have looked like, you would forgive me. Or not notice, which is quite possibly the case.

The truth is this – from my phone to my BFF this very morning – before 11 am: That point at which every breath is about keeping the craziest version of yourself at bay – yeah I’m there. 

And then I went and cried in the bathroom for five minutes. I’m not kidding.

Nothing went horribly wrong, but I couldn’t muster the strength to answer one more question, hoist the baby one more time, choose to be “fine” for one more moment. So I cried in the bathroom, and a little while rocking the baby.

I wasn’t feeling sorry for myself or angry at anyone – I was overwhelmingly, intensely aware that I am struggling as a mommy. I am not loving very many of these moments, and I’m not sure exactly how to move forward in this journey. I am not sure how to be content in these circumstances. I do not sense the value of this work, and I feel guilty about that. I want to be fully invested in my girls. I want to enter their little worlds. I don’t expect to get it all right, but I do want to not find myself pondering upon the fact that apart from Jesus, I am Vivi-Abbott-Walker-crazy.

[If you’ve never read Little Altars Everywhere or Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood by Rebecca Wells, do it. It’s loosely based on the town I grew up in. The characters might be slightly embellished, but the spirit of the story is all kinds of Louisiana living. They are both great – albeit wordly – reads. You are welcome.]

And there in-lies the answer to it all. I am not apart from Jesus. I am very much joined with Jesus. He is in me. When the crazy gets dialed up to the Vivi danger zone, His voice calms my aching, need-to-run spirit. Also, He reminds me to say, “Thank you,” for arms full, for house loud, and for time alone limited. He whispers over and again, “My grace is sufficient. Stop trying so hard and let me do it. Let me do it, child.”

So, we traipse thirty minutes north to our favorite library and Farmer’s market. We eat our Peanut Butter and honey sandwiches and have a couple of pretty impressive Popsicles. Adelle climbs a tree. Marilee waves at everyone we pass.

I focus on being present. That is all.

We wait in a lot of traffic to get home, and I let Adelle watch TV the whole way. We swing by Target for a couple of days of groceries. Marilee keeps waving. Adelle rides on the side of the cart and helps throw the goodies in. I get a PSL, for Pete’s Sake. The girls help me eat the whipped cream off the top. We pull into the drive and Adelle asks to play with a friend down the street. I uncharacteristically agree. I put Marilee down for a nap, blare a little music on the front porch, and plant my mums. I marvel at the peace that washes over my as I get my hands dirty.


I resolve again to find ways to move our family toward simplicity.

And I do not cry again. Not today, anyway.

That’s my truth. It looks like running wildly into the Holy of Holies and throwing myself before the Mercy Seat – running mascara, fear, inadequacies – all of it. The truth looks like trusting Him entirely with every bit of who I really I am.

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