Bless Your Heart

blessyourheart2I distinctly recall the first time someone “blessed my heart.” You know the type: the staged whisper [southern accent optional], big smile and—this is key—behind your back. I was standing in the world’s longest post office line and had forgotten to go to the bathroom before I decided to run this brilliant errand. I had all three of my boys with me (cue warning sirens) and was shipping a huge box internationally for a friend, complete with 4,124 forms filled out in triplicate.

There I was, shifting from one foot to the other, and my boys just couldn’t. Pull. It. Together. They were squirrely and goofy and decided our local, fluorescent-flickering post office was the BEST place to play tag.

That’s when I heard it.

“Bless her heart.”


I fumed. I was frustrated with my kids. Frustrated at the lack of public restrooms in the post office. And frustrated that a woman who didn’t even know my story could “bless my heart” in such a way that felt about as far from a blessing as humanly possible.

What was not lost on me at that moment was the fact that we were in the final preparations to receive foster children into our home. We were planning on taking in a sibling group of two, which meant we were mere moments away from jumping from three to five kids. I wanted to turn around to this woman and scream “Guess what? There’s MORE coming!”

(Sharing over at the Faithbridge Foster Care blog today. Click here to continue reading!)

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