This is the thing: I love my daughter.  I love her more than writing.  And I’m not ashamed to say at one point, in the beginning, middle, maybe even the end of my pregnancy, I was a little bit worried that I’d still love writing more than her.  I know that’s ludicrous for most mothers to read (and if your eyes are bleeding, here’s a tissue) but there are a lot us out there, women born with passion, maybe even a smidgen of talent who want to drink from that cup until it’s dry.  I’m one of those women.

My husband and I have decided we only want one child.  This is a plan we’ve put in place for a number of reasons, the main one being that my attention can only be split in so many directions and if I want to really concentrate and focus on my ambitions then I need to know my limits.  One gorgeous, healthy, incredibly destructive yet cute as a button little girl?  She’s my limit.

I think a lot about calling.  I remember when I was younger, being raised in a Catholic household, going to a Catholic school, you’d hear about calling and learn who was called to do God’s work as a priest or nun, who was called to live the single life, who was called to teach and who was called to raise families.  And I always wondered who was called to marry a loving husband, raise one beautiful baby girl, write with abandon and occasionally clean up after her Chihuahuas’ many accidents.

And I know now.  God is calling me.

I've been called outspoken,
headstrong, a rebel.
But if I am these things,
it is for Your sake.
You gave me a discerning mind
to examine the world with.
You gave me a voice,
and a destiny.
I will not squander these things.
I will shout,
and pray that it is Your voice
that will be heard.



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