Blessings and f*ck

Blessings and f*ck.

That’s the quarter inch space I found myself in.

Journaling, listening to Seph Schlueter’s Counting My Blessings, sitting with Ephesians 4:2. Praying. Gratitude spilling out. Wanting to be with God. To just be.

And then…chaos.

It started with bickering. Then escalated - arguing, yelling, feet stomping. A Jurassic World raptor mask somehow made its way into the mix, its mechanical roaring filling the air, one of the boys opening its jaw over and over like a war siren.

Taking a deep breath in, I wrote a prayer to God, “Thank you Lord for all you’ve done in my life…”

Someone shoved someone else. Someone screamed. Then came the inevitable - Mom! He did this! Mom! He won’t stop! Mom! Do something!

Fighting. Yelling. Me, snapping. The mother of all swear words (thanks Ralphie). You know, that word, flying out before I could catch it.

Matt stormed in from outside, eyes wide, with his own WTF?! The boys came stomping upstairs, the weight of their little feet matching the pressure pounding in my chest. And what did I do? Definitely acted like the 38-year-old adult that I am. I grabbed my journal, my coffee, my phone. Stood up and in front of my wide-eyed-family, said I needed a minute. Walked upstairs and shut (okay, more like firmly shut) the bathroom door.

I sat in my closet and hands over my eyes cried.

Thirty minutes that began with head down - just breathing. Just praying. Just sitting in the weight of my own failure, feeling the contradiction of it all. How I could go from counting my blessings to throwing them into the fire of my frustration in a single breath.

It’s all there, scribbled in my journal - raw, unfiltered. The tension. The failure. The firestorm of emotion that had only a quarter inch between holy and human, patience and anger, grace and a breaking point.

After a morning of cooking breakfast, laughing, and soaking in the slow rhythm of a weekend at home. After tidying up, the boys playing in their rooms, and finally sneaking in a quiet moment—hot coffee in hand—to sit with God, to refuel my soul and steady my heart. But instead, I lost it.

That silver ridge between blessings and f*ck can be so thin some days.

"With tender humility and quiet patience, always demonstrate gentleness and generous love toward one another, especially toward those who may try your patience." —Ephesians 4:2

Who knew when I was journaling Ephesians 4:2 that I would be the one in need of grace and generous love? This verse wasn’t about them, it was about me. How timely with what was yet to unfold.

I shake my head at it now. My boys are fine, not damaged and I’ve given them my heartfelt apologies. I’ve learned more about sensory overload (which only took me three babies to name it) and steps to take when I start to feel that pressure in my chest. Naturally, my family brings this up at family gatherings as a way to laugh at my parenting fail because let’s be real, we all have our moments.

Thank God there’s not a day that goes by without His unfolding grace.