Stained feet.

My oldest, not yet five, sits on the floor with a package of wipes. He colored his feet with markers while I was laying the baby down. He sits there for minutes, intent on restoring himself clean. His feet now temporarily stained. Wipes are not helping. I encourage him to leave it and come do something different. His feet are still dirty. He gets up and moves to the bathroom. Minutes later, I find him scrubbing feet in the sink with soap. Feet are still stained.

The holy spirit moves in and convicts. His call to me is the same. That mistake I have made. That hurt I have caused. That conversation I wish I could take back. The things that fill my mind when I climb into bed at night. Wrestling with the wrongs, that I wish I could make right. His call to me is the same. To leave it and come and do something different.

Reality is, I cannot make myself clean. My actions and my thought energy and my heart must all align. Align in the truth that the blood of Jesus is sufficient for me. God knew I was never going to make the mark. Perfection. Spotless. Pure. Yet this is my confidence: I plead the blood of a substitute. The perfect, spotless, lamb of God. The blood of Jesus. His crimson red restoring me white.

My son, a reflection of my own heart, pointing me back to the heart of the Father. Reminding me, I am ordained for motherhood.