I have this sign, one that says "Home is Where Your Story Begins" hanging above my front door . . . it's been part of us for years because I truly believe what it's telling us.
Tonight, though, as I was outside, I was suddenly struck with the idea of trying to see our "home" from a stranger's view, and the sign popped into my head. What kind of story am I helping my children write? While I long for their story to be one of happiness and unconditional love, of fairness and equality, one that's built on a strong foundation with faith and courage and family and determination written on all of the pages, I know that's not the story I'm writing on more days than I would like to admit. Days where I'm tired or they are fighting, days that I lose my patience and they are demanding, days where I don't have enough of me to go around.
As I stood outside and imagined what story this home would tell, I vowed to be less tired, more patient, to find a way for there to always be enough of me . . .
so that their story can be a masterpiece.
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