Do you ever feel God stirring in your heart? To the point where it’s nauseating?

“Ugh! God, stop pulling on that heart string! I feel like I’m going to throw up!”

You too? Oh ok. Good.

I like to ask Tim loaded questions right before bed. It’s never on purpose. It’s just that my mind usually starts racing and getting inwardly pensive right around the 10:00pm hour. I kind of hate that about myself. I have lost a lot of good sleep in my life over nauseating, late night heart-stirrings from God. C’mon, God. Can’t you start your convicting chats with me around 10am; when I’ve had a good night’s rest and at least one cup of coffee coursing through my veins?

Nope, Child. Never. You don’t hear as well then. Even if you do, you won’t listen. 

Oh. Well, I’m listening now. I can’t sleep from listening.

“Giving monetarily isn’t the only way to support a cause…” Or something like that. But that just leads me to more praying, which leads to more of God’s “Do something, Child!” beratings. And how can I change how my heart feels?

Nauseated.

Nauseated when I think about a home video of a 10-year-old me opening presents at my Birthday party; not being able to express why the reason I wanted that baby doll instead of the white one was not because I thought the white one didn’t look as much like a girl, but because there was something stirring in my little tween heart that a blended, colorful family was beautiful. I’m proud of my parents for buying me not one but two dolls that were “different” from all the rest {they were all made of plastic, yes?}, no matter the justifications.

Now I know. Now grown-up Malorie can tell 10-year-old Malorie that it was just God’s first whispers to my heart. It was God holding up the first family photo. God’s family is not the Stock family, because I’m in it. I’m that baby in God’s family. I’m the one that’s {gulp!} adopted. So it’s okay, 10-year-old me, to want that.

The wooden spoon returns. Stir, stir, stir. Dry heaves.

That baby you love is the baby I made. That child that brings tears to your eyes when they smile in a mess is a child of mine. Those fingers that sew; those hands that dig, that plant, that reap; those backs that ache; those brilliant minds left to waste because of the hands of an unjust master, they’re mine. And you consume, buy, consume, without a thought of where it came from.

75. That’s my number {What’s yours?}. Let’s face it, it’s probably more. I’m hemorhagging slavery. In foundation and mascara and baby clothes and food. Aren’t you?

Do you feel it? Are you nauseous? Maybe you’re just angry. I’ve been there too. “Shut up! Just shut up. Sweep it under the rug. What we pretend we don’t know, doesn’t hurt us.”

All the while, I’m just a Mommy; changing diapers {that baby needs a new diaper, or heck, just a clean bottle to eat from!}, feeding lunches, teaching letters, cleaning up poo. What can I do?

Right now? Just listen, Child, just listen. There’s a lot you must learn first. And please, try not to throw up? These are just the baby steps.

 
Sorry, Disney goers. This one was definitely fit for a Note from Neverland. I’m sure you’ll forgive my vampire grumblings. Day 5 is in the works.

With love, Malorie