{Today’s guest post is from  Cara Sexton, of Whimsy Smitten.  Show her some love friends…and tell her about the badges you wear}

There are eight boys and one girl in this house that call me mom.

And there are days when that name, that title, weighs on me… when the word is called between whines and arguments and the voices of all the young people that need me, around here.

“Mom, my foot hurts.”

“Mom, he hit me.”

“Mom, I spilled my juice all over the carpet.”

“Mom, I think I’m going to throw up.”

“Mom, I need new shoes/pants/pens/paper/ shampoo”… and the list goes on.

And yes, there is also so much beauty and honor in that title.

“Mom, I love you.”

“Thank you, Mom.”

“Mom, I need a hug.”

“Happy Birthday, Mom… I picked this rose just for you.”

It’s a badge of honor, that moniker, that tells the world of all the wounds I’ve kissed, the hugs I’ve given (and those I’ve received), and the battlefields I’ve lived upon.

But there are other words, so much harder to hear.

“You’re not my mom!”

They’re said with anger, a teenager’s heart leaking out behind the painful truth.

I’m not.  But I’m the closest thing he’s got.

Of these nine, only three are the babies of my body.  The rest are children of my heart.  We are a canvas, together, of different skin colors and ages, voices and backgrounds, talents and quirks and hurts.

Husband and I live and run a large household – a “boy’s cottage” at a Christian children’s home.  Some call this “residential child care”, but for us, its simply home.  We do life together… Husband and I and these nine young hearts … eat meals, go bowling, do our chores and laugh and cry and wash clothes and love and learn and live together.

Today is one of the harder days, where this boy and I are both reminded of the uncertainty of this world, of the pain that got us all here.  And the title, Mom, that I wear with pride but is hurled back to injure and maim.  It stings.  I did not bear this child of my body.  I did not lay eyes on his freckle-splashed face until after the abuse and neglect had settled deep into his angry heart.  I am not his mother.  But he is why I’m here.

And my choice, today, is how I wear that Mom-badge, the title with all its meanings.  I can hide it beneath short-temperedness and fatigue, forgetting the tribute it carries.  I can dishonor the legacy with hurry, shouting demands and barking orders, responding in my hurt, or I can take a breath, here, and wear this badge with grace.  I can take this hurt into my hands and lift it to the very Messiah whose purpose is transforming hearts.  I can connect with His Holy Spirit, even here… even now… and breathe in love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control (Galatians 5:22).  Aren’t those the very catalysts for transformation of the heart?

Yes.

And I wrap my arms around the boy, around the hurt, around the anger and the tears that come now from his hard eyes, and I pray for all those fruits to flow from Heaven, right through my embrace and seep down deep, wash away all that he cannot yet trust.  I pray that, for this moment and all moments, this substitute mother will reflect the affection of a good God whose love for us depends not upon what we do or what we say, but takes our hearts in His and transforms them with grace and goodness and endless, endless love.