The mothers who carry the altar home
There is a reckoning rising in this generation of mothers.
The word reckoning can sound quite severe but what I mean by this is something gentler. It’s a holy accounting. A coming into truth. A face to face encounter with what’s real and honest. God’s way of bringing what’s been hidden into the light to restore, heal and call us back home when we’ve been too far off axis and we’re listening. We’re heeding to the call. We’re showing up.
There is weight many mothers are carrying that does not belong to them. It was handed down through generational lineages. Often subtly, efficiently, without question. Unspoken grief. Expectations, Survival patterns.Traumas. And in this reckoning, that weight begins to lift.
Not by striving or performing but by remembering,
These are the mothers God is refining. Quietly pruning. Gently shaping. The ones who have been walking through the fire without narrating it or announcing it to the world. They are breaking generational patterns that once felt unbreakable. They have learned to observe before they react. To pray before they speak. To intercede before they instruct. To discern before they define. To listen before they label. To understand before they judge.
Their calling does not living on stages or highlight reels or screens,
It lives inside the four walls of their home.
It lives in the long obedience of faithful-heartedness in ordinary days.
You will recognize them by their fruit.
By the warmth that settles in a space after they leave.
By the way children soften in their presence.
By the atmosphere of a steady peacefulness that follows them everywhere they go.
Their homes become places where mistakes are not feared, but taught from. Where discipline slowly turns into discipleship. Where holiness is woven into dishes and laundry and morning routines and bedtime prayers. Where gratitude is spoken where children can hear it.
This morning at church, during worship, I felt the gravity of this work settle into the room.
It was already a profound worship session when the pastor called the church into a total surrendering. To not just be spectators but make way to the altar. He specifically said if you’re just tired, doesnt matter if youre spiritually, mentally, emotionally, physically, to come up to the altar.
I came up to the altar ready to receive prayer and there were women praying for me.
Hands steady, voices low, and after they prayed, I began to notice the mothers in the room. Not in any dramatic way just a noticing. A quiet recognition.
There was a particular steadiness about them. A kind of tenderness that had clearly been a hard fought hallelujah. These were women who knew something about surrender- not as a concept but as a lived practice. They had learned where strength actually comes from.
They stand in the gap in between not with armors but with their bodies. Their time. Their energy. Their surrendered nervous systems. Their quiet yes.
It struck me that much of the most important work God is doing right now will never be platformed. The altar didn’t just stay at the church-
It comes home with us…
Into kitchens.
Into minivans.
Into whispered prayers over sleeping children.
Into the unseen places where legacy is actually formed.
The reckoning is not loud.
But it is unmistakable.
And it is already underway.
Warmly,
