Thank You, God — Even for the Hard Things

Hello, lovies 🌿

I know I’ve been a little sporadic with my posts lately — life has been a lot. We’re still settling into our new home (we only have 15 more boxes, which feels like a victory), and trying to find a rhythm that makes sense for this new season. Add to that the fact that every single one of us has had whatever mystery crud is making the rounds right now — well, it’s been so much fun. (Said no mom ever.)

Still, even in the middle of chaos and cold medicine, life has this funny way of handing you moments that stop you right where you are — the kind that whisper, “Pay attention. There’s something special here.”

Mine showed up this morning, on the way to school, with a five-year-old in the backseat and a faith playlist running on shuffle.

I plugged my phone into the car, and a song started playing — one of those songs you don’t remember finding but somehow feels like it found you. I haven’t even watched the show it’s from, just saw a clip while doom-scrolling one night (don’t judge me — we’ve all been there) and loved the lyrics so much that I added it to my “faith in the fog” playlist.

Apparently, this was the first time my little one was really listening to the words:

“Thank You, God, that I’m hurt.
Thank You, God, that I’m thirsty.”

After a minute, he asked, “Why is she mad at God?”

I asked him why he thought that, and he said, “Because she’s saying she’s hurt and thirsty.”

Fair logic, honestly. Five-year-old theology can be refreshingly direct.

So, I told him what I thought — that maybe she wasn’t mad at God at all. Maybe she was thanking Him for being there in the hard stuff. Thanking Him that even the hurt has purpose.

I asked, “Do you ever thank God when things feel hard or too big?”

He got quiet — really quiet — and then said, “No… not as much as I should.”

(And before anyone nominates me for Mother of the Year, this is just how he is — my little philosopher in sneakers.)

Then he said, almost to himself, “Even if we can’t feel God in the moment, we always know He’s in our hearts.”

And I just sat there, both hands on the steering wheel, thinking — well… yeah, it really is that simple.

But of course, as the quiet settled in, so did something else — that familiar tug of mom guilt.

I have three beautiful boys. My older two are 20 and 16, from my first marriage, and then there’s my five-year-old, my little caboose of chaos and wonder.

When my older boys were little, I was still trying to figure out who I was. I loved them fiercely, but I was searching — for peace, for identity, for God in a way I couldn’t yet grasp. They got the younger version of me — the one still trying to be everything to everyone, running on adrenaline and sheer willpower.

Now, I’m older. Softer. More grounded. But also… tired. Like, “needs a recovery day after walking up the stairs” tired. Chronic illness has made sure of that.

So sometimes I feel guilty that I can’t give my youngest the same energy I gave the older ones. And then, just as quickly, I feel guilty that the older ones didn’t get this version of me — the one who breathes before reacting, who listens more, prays deeper, and doesn’t crumble every time life throws a curveball.

It’s a strange kind of ache — the way motherhood makes you want to go back and forward at the same time.

I used to think mom guilt was something you could outgrow — like your taste for cheap wine or the urge to cut your own bangs.
But the truth? It just changes shape.
When they’re little, you worry you’re not doing enough.
When they’re grown, you worry you didn’t do it right.

But grace — beautiful, undeserved grace — stretches both ways.

The mom I was then? She did her best with what she had.
The mom I am now? She’s doing the same.

And maybe that’s the point. Maybe we’re not supposed to be the same version of ourselves for every season of their lives. Maybe the growing up isn’t just theirs — it’s ours too.

My boys — all three of them — have known love in every version of me.
Messy, tired, hopeful, learning — but always loving.

So today, I’m choosing to thank God for all of it — the mess, the ache, the moments that make me laugh and the ones that make me cry in the pantry while eating the last cookie I swore was for the kids.

Because if motherhood has taught me anything, it’s that holiness often hides in the ordinary. The sacred and the chaotic tend to travel together.

And honestly? I wouldn’t trade it for anything — except maybe an uninterrupted nap.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to sit and stare at the boxes still needing to be unpacked and pretend that willing them to unpack themselves counts as cardio.

Spoiler: It doesn’t.

Until next time, from the water’s edge,

— Jenny