Yesterday I told myself that there is always space.  Even when the baby is squealing and the dishes are piling and my head is pounding, there's space even then.  But also yesterday, when early night and late afternoon layered and the squealing baby was resting, the space was so close my heart burned.  It would be hard to not meet Him in spaces like this, heavy with the pulling and the longing and the ache to just fall back on those everlasting arms that sometimes feel so real, so necessary, I have to catch myself.

There was a period in my life when weekly I would grab a friend, snag a table at a coffee shop, push the headphones in and open The Word for hours.  My Bible is so covered in that period, in the colorful ink and the exclamation marks and the circling that it is hard to not meet that 20ish me in the pages and sometimes I want to roll my eyes at her.  Or cry.  I tell all my girls that being single is one of the greatest opportunities for loving the Savior better, for loving Him selflessly and without distraction.

But yesterday, when I started down that path full of excuses and justifications, the Holy Spirit started preaching.  There is always space.  My space now looks different, but it isn't any less sweet.  It's holding that baby boy and singing truth over our hearts.  It's late at night silently singing the song that always calms me, singing from my soul.  It is old school Jars of Clay and Audio Adrenaline playing during dishes, quick peeks at The Word during nap.  Short notes memorializing His goodness.  It is simply choosing to not pick up my phone and to pick up my journal instead, to not scroll, to meditate.

And then the layers of my walk come back and the 20ish me is running verses through my head while the 30ish me wins battles for head space.  And then, the day is won.  Then my son is around Jesus, then my husband gets less of me and more of Him and my scattered heart is focused, zeroed in on the thing that most fills me: glorying in Him.  Just like that, tired mamas.