This post was originally posted at Rise
Every night, I sneak into my daughter's room to kiss and pray for her. I find her twisted into an unnatural position, with her stuffed animals neatly lined up at the bottom of her bed. This scene perfectly sums up her personality. She is feisty and uncontrollable. But she is also thoughtful. She draws pictures for her sick friends, loves to give food and money to the homeless, and is continually handing me toys to give to other children. I love being a mom, I adore my daughter, and I love watching her grow into the person God is forming her to be.
But I’m not called to be a mother.
My husband joins me in this ritual. He compassionately tucks her back into the covers. After this ritual, we retreat to our room, laughing at his one-line comments about her sleeping habits. I’m madly in love with my husband.
And yet, being his wife is not my calling.
Don’t get me wrong; I believe God commands me to love my family. I sacrifice for both of them, and there are times – more than I would like to admit – where my love for them turns my family into an idol.
But I am not called to be a mother nor a wife.
My calling is to sit at Jesus’ feet and be his disciple. God calls me to love him with my whole heart and to love my neighbor as myself. God calls me to make disciples of all nations and to be a witness from Jerusalem to Judea and the ends of the earth.
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