The thorn and the thread.
Motherhood didn’t take the ache away — it brought it into the light. In the quiet moments of weakness, I kept asking God to remove the thorn… But what I found instead was a thread. Grace didn’t wait for my strength.It met me in the mess — held me in the unraveling —and whispered: You’re still mine.
🧵 In the thorn, I found grace.
“But He said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness.’
Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me.”
— 2 Corinthians 12:9
There are things I’ve prayed would go away.
Fears. Patterns. Pain I didn’t ask for.
Wounds I thought I had already forgiven,
until a single word or memory brought it all back like it never left.
There are days I can feel the thorn pressing again —
not on the surface,
but deep in the soul.
That place where motherhood meets memory
and something aches that I can’t fully explain.
I used to think healing would mean the thorn would be removed.
But sometimes, healing means learning to live with it —
not in bitterness,
but in grace.
Motherhood didn’t take my thorn away.
If anything, it brought it into the light.
The moments when I raise my voice
and feel my own childhood echo in it.
The way I shrink when I feel unseen —
even though I know I’m no longer that little girl.
The fear that I’ll never get it all right —
that something broken in me will spill over into her.
These are thorns.
And they don’t go away just because I love Jesus.
But they do bring me back to Him. Over and over again.
Because what I’ve found —
and what I’m still finding —
is that Christ doesn’t wait until the thorn is gone to use me.
He meets me in it.
His grace doesn’t shame my weakness —
it rests on it.
And somehow, in the quiet places where I feel most unworthy,
He threads redemption through.
🌿 A Short Story from My Journey
There was a day — not too long ago —
when everything felt heavy.
The baby was restless, needing to be held nonstop.
My body was aching, especially my wrist —
worn down from awkward breastfeeding angles
and the weight of never having a moment to exhale.
I wasn’t hungry for food,
or in pain I could easily name.
But everything around me felt chaotic.
The house was a mess — and even though my husband gladly took the baby to give me a break,
my idea of a break was cleaning up.
Because I can’t relax when everything’s in disarray.
So I picked up toys, loaded dishes, folded laundry.
And when I was done, I returned to the baby,
because that’s just what I do.
But underneath all of it — the serving, the cleaning, the coping —
was the quiet ache of depletion.
The longing to be held in the same way I’m always holding.
It wasn’t the tasks themselves that broke me.
It was the not being able to get to them —
the feeling of being surrounded by undone things,
while holding someone who needed everything from me.
The thoughts started circling:
- I can’t keep doing this.
- I’m not enough for her.
- I’m already failing.
I didn’t yell.
That’s not how I break.
I folded.
I went quiet.
Tears blurred my vision as I kept doing what needed to be done —
nursing, rocking, shushing —
but inside, I was unraveling.
My husband noticed and asked, “Are you okay?”
And I said, “I’m fine.”
Because I couldn’t put it into words.
Because honestly, I was on the verge of completely breaking down.
And in that moment, I felt ashamed for not being stronger,
and guilty for not being more grateful.
Right there, in that swirl of shame and exhaustion,
I heard it — not audibly, but deep in my spirit:
"My grace is sufficient for you."
Not when you’re glowing with strength,
not when you get everything right —
but right here,
in your quiet collapse.
That was the thorn.
The place where I knew I wasn’t enough.
But also the place where He reminded me:
I never had to be.
🪡 The Thread
I used to think God’s grace would feel like a dramatic rescue —
some kind of wind that would lift me out of the mess and place me in a better story.
But it hasn’t looked like that for me.
Grace, for me, has looked quieter.
It’s the stillness I feel after the tears fall.
The whisper of the Spirit reminding me I’m not alone.
The strength to try again the next day — not because I feel ready,
but because somehow, I know I’m not doing it in my own strength.
It’s in my husband’s gentle “I’ve got her, go rest” —
not just help, but covering.
It’s in the warmth of baby’s breath on my chest
when I realize she just wants me, not my perfection.
This is the thread.
The thread isn’t the absence of pain.
It’s the presence of God woven through it.
It’s what kept me from falling completely apart
when I didn’t even have the words to pray.
It’s what turns moments of unraveling
into moments of renewal.
When I trace the thread back far enough,
I see Him —
not just in the healing,
but in the holding.
And maybe the thorn doesn’t leave
because it keeps me close to the One who carries me.
🌿 A Closing Reflection
Maybe you have a thorn too.
One that presses against your peace.
One that reminds you of how fragile you feel beneath the surface.
I don’t know what yours looks like.
But I know this:
You don’t have to hide it from Christ.
You don’t have to overcome it before coming to Him.
“Where can I go from Your Spirit?
Where can I flee from Your presence?
If I go up to the heavens, You are there;
if I make my bed in the depths, You are there.
If I rise on the wings of the dawn,
if I settle on the far side of the sea,
even there Your hand will guide me,
Your right hand will hold me fast.”
— Psalm 139:7–10
Even in the depths, He is still holding you.
Even when you can’t feel Him —
when your spirit feels frayed,
when everything feels like too much —
He is still guiding you, still staying with you.
His grace is sufficient for you.
Not just in your strong moments,
but in your folded ones.
In the silence.
In the middle of the mess.
In the places you think are unworthy of being seen.
And if you look closely —
if you trace the thread through your own story —
you may begin to see what I’ve been learning, too:
The thorn has not disqualified you.
It’s been the doorway to grace.