As mothers, we are the sacrifice.
The hidden, holy work of motherhood is the altar.
I’ve been a little quiet over here lately — not because I didn’t have anything to say, but because I was being invited to rest. I chose to take my foot off the gas and sink into the gift of solitude. I’ve been basking in the everyday adventures of life with my son, releasing the pressure to create anything beyond what was already in front of me.
A lot has been moving in my heart, but rather than spilling every thought, I want to offer you the deepest truth that’s risen to the surface:
As mothers, we are the sacrifice.
We leave behind everything we once knew — every version of ourselves that felt familiar — in full and unwavering faith that what we’re stepping into will be better, more eternal, and more rooted than anything we could’ve imagined.
Recently, I started watching The Chosen, and it made me realize, the way Jesus called His disciples to follow Him — with no roadmap, no guarantee, just trust — reminded me of what it felt like to say yes to motherhood. They had no way of knowing the fullness of what they would receive by simply saying yes to the call, and neither did I.
I’ve come to believe: that’s the whole point.
Since that realization, I’ve felt something unexpected — relief.
Relief that I am not meant to be everything to everyone.
Relief that I don’t need to hustle for answers or validation.
Relief that my highest calling in this season is to steward — this family, this home, my husband, and most sacred of all, my son’s soul.
With that clarity came this whisper:
You are being invited to die to yourself, daily.
Not in a way that erases you, but in a way that refines you.
Motherhood has stripped away so many pieces of who I thought I was.
What remains is stronger. Quieter. Holier. In the dying, something softer and more eternal has taken root.
It’s in the laying down of my timelines…
The surrendering of my body…
The letting go of my need to be understood, seen, or celebrated…
…that I have met God in the most intimate way.
Every time I choose patience instead of frustration, presence instead of distraction, surrender instead of control — I am dying to my old self in a way that is not loss. It is becoming.
I used to long for more connection — to be part of mom groups, to find community that made me feel less alone, but I’ve come to realize something: when I’m quiet enough, the answers are already within me. He is already within me and that changes everything.
This season has become less about reaching and more about receiving. Less about finding and more about becoming.
All of it — even the unseen, quiet, and messy parts — is worship. I like to think that God is incredibly pleased with us for sacrificing ourselves daily to humbly raise up the next generation of his children with the love and presence they deserve.
Reflection
What part of your old self have you laid down in motherhood?
What part of your new self is being formed through this surrender?
Closing Prayer
Father,
Thank You for the sacred calling of motherhood —
for the quiet, hidden places where You meet me again and again.
Teach me to see the laying down of myself not as loss,
but as a holy offering — fragrant and pleasing to You.
Help me release the parts of me that no longer serve the woman You are shaping.
Give me the courage to surrender my need to be seen,
my desire to control,
and my longing to be everything to everyone.
May I find joy in the unseen moments,
strength in the softest sacrifices,
and peace in the simplicity of serving.
Remind me, Lord, that every time I choose love over ego,
presence over distraction,
gentleness over urgency,
I am drawing nearer to You.
Let my days be an altar,
and my service — no matter how small —
a song of worship that rises up to please You.
I trust that You are pleased, not in my perfection,
but in my willingness to die to self
so that You may live more fully through me.
In Jesus’ name,
Amen.
Trust that God sees every bit of your effort and you will be rewarded with eternal life beside him in his kingdom.
With all my love and reverence, Lauren.
