The world loves to label people by where they’ve been.
It sees the trauma, the diagnosis, the explosion of emotions… and draws conclusions.
It says, “This is who you are now. This is who you’ll always be.”
But Jesus?
Jesus doesn’t name us after our past.
He calls us by our healing.
And that truth is what holds me together on the days when motherhood feels like a battleground and my tears hit the floor before breakfast.
My son comes from a hard place.
He carries more in his tiny heart than most people twice his size.
His story started in survival mode, and some days, it still shows.
The rage that flares like wildfire.
The outbursts that feel too big for his body.
The silence that follows like smoke.
It would be so easy for the world to write him off—
To lable him angry.
Defiant.
Too much.
But he’s not too much.
He’s just been through too much.
And every day, every single day, I stand in that gap between who the world says he is…
and who God already knows he’s becoming.
Every whispered prayer,
Every exhausted deep breath before I respond,
Every time I choose love instead of fear —
I am laying down another brick.
A bridge.
Out of the past.
Toward healing.
Toward wholeness.
Toward a future not defined by pain but rebuilt by grace.
This road is rough.
The journey is long.
And some nights, it steals every ounce of strength I have left.
But grace doesn’t quit.
And neither will I.
There are days when his anger erupts like a storm—
Little fists pounding.
Tears flooding.
Tiny lungs shouting things he doesn’t mean but feels so deeply.
And I sit there — heart aching — wondering if I’m doing any of this right.
But then God reminds me:
I’m not just parenting a child.
I’m fighting spiritual battles he doesn’t even know exist yet.
I’m breaking generational chains he can’t even see.
I’m planting seeds of peace and safety in soil that’s been scorched by fear.
This is sacred work.
Even when it hurts.
Even when it feels like failure.
Even when I cry alone on the bathroom floor because I don’t know how to help him.
Jesus sees it all.
The moments I lose my patience.
The guilt that comes after.
The deep ache of wanting to do better, be better, love better.
And He doesn’t shame me.
He meets me.
Right in the middle of it.
He whispers, “I’m here. I see you. You’re not failing. You’re healing — together.”
There are days when I hug my son while he’s still angry.
While he’s still screaming.
While his little body is tense and his eyes are wild with hurt.
Because that’s exactly how Jesus holds me too.
Not after I’ve calmed down.
Not after I’ve found the right words or made the right choices.
But right there in the chaos — arms wide open, heart steady, love unshaken.
I’m not raising a perfect boy.
I’m raising a deeply loved one.
And love — even on the hardest days — still wins.
Maybe not in loud, obvious victories.
But in the quiet persistence.
In the forgiveness after the storm.
In the softness that returns when the dust settles.
So, to everyone out there sitting in the ashes, wondering if you're getting through:
You are.
One holy, messy, beautiful moment at a time.
#LovingThroughTheMess #RaisingHeartsNotJustKids #HealingIsHolyWork #HolyHotMessSundays #HolyGroundMoments
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