My time here has passsed . Every moment was an internal struggle between the writing-woman courting her calling and the family-woman longing for her loved ones. The calling never won.

I didn't anticipate missing my children.

Callous? Perhaps. Secretly, I was desperate to get away, but unwilling to give that desperation voice. How could I? It would crack my fragile, air-filled, super-mom persona. But I missed them daily. My room was quiet without the sound of scrapping boys wrestling in the background. My body was lonely without hugs or tugs or tiny touches. My mind was empty without pointless-three-year-old-questions and endless-nine-year-old-conversations.

Am I a writer? Sure. And I hope to become a better one. But more than a row of published hardbacked novels lining my shelf, I hope to populate my life with a row of loving children who follow after God. Without that, the books would mean nothing.