When Worship Looks Like Bedrest and Babies: My Offering

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what it really means to worship. Not just sing songs on Sunday morning or whisper a quick prayer when I’m overwhelmed—but to truly worship God with all that I am.

The word “worship” gets tossed around a lot, and I think sometimes we lose the depth of it. For me, it’s become something so much more than just an activity. It’s a posture. A lifestyle. A constant turning of my heart back to the One who is worthy of it all.

At its core, to worship is to look at God’s worth.

Let that sink in for a second: to look at God’s worth. Not just glance in His direction when I need something. Not just admire Him from afar. But to truly see Him—to take time to behold who He is, to remember what He’s done, and to let the weight of His beauty and majesty settle over my soul. It’s in those moments, when I stop and actually look at God, that my perspective shifts. My problems shrink. My heart softens. And my worship begins.

Worship also means bowing before Him.

And not just physically, though sometimes I do that too. But bowing in my heart—coming low before the King of Kings. Saying with my whole being, “You are God, and I am not. You’re in charge. I trust You.” That kind of humility is hard. Especially when I want to hold tight to my plans, my opinions, my timeline. But worship invites me to lay it all down. To surrender again. To remember that He is God and I am His.

Another part of worship that’s been hitting me deeply is this: to rehearse who He is and tell Him He is worthy.

It sounds simple, but there’s power in it. When I start reminding myself—and Him—of who He is, something happens in my spirit. “You are faithful. You are good. You are just. You are my peace.” These aren’t just words I say to feel better; they are truths that anchor my soul. Sometimes I need to speak them out loud just to fight the lies I’m tempted to believe. God doesn’t need us to tell Him who He is—He already knows. But we need it. Our hearts need to remember. And He delights in hearing it.

Finally, real worship looks like submitting everything to Him.

And that’s probably the hardest part. Because it’s not just about singing a beautiful song—it’s about handing over my whole life. My dreams. My fears. My time. My family. My failures. My future. Worship means saying, “You are worthy of this, too. Even the parts I want to control. Even the pieces I don’t understand.” It’s radical trust. And it’s also the most freeing thing in the world.

Friend, worship isn’t just something we do. It’s a way we live—with eyes fixed on Jesus, hearts bowed low, lips filled with truth, and hands wide open.

I’m still learning. Still growing. Still coming back to the feet of Jesus again and again. But I want my life to be a living, breathing act of worship—every ordinary moment offered up to the One who is worthy of it all.

And today—on Mother’s Day—my heart is especially tender as I reflect on how the Lord has called me to live this kind of surrendered worship in the most stretching and sacred of ways: through motherhood.

My testimony of worship isn’t built on stages or microphones. It’s been shaped in quiet, unseen places—hospital rooms, tear-stained pillows, months of bedrest, and the daily surrender of my body, my plans, and my will as I carried each of our seven children.

Each pregnancy was high risk. Every one came with its own battle—complications, fears, long stretches of stillness when all I could do was wait and trust. I remember lying there, day after day, unable to move, wrestling with questions, and yet always drawn back to one truth: He is worthy. He is worthy of my yes, of my waiting, of my aching, of my trusting. Even when I couldn’t see what was ahead, even when the cost felt overwhelming, I gave it all to Him.

Carrying our children wasn’t just a physical act—it was worship. It was my offering. A living, breathing sacrifice of love and obedience to the One who gave me life and who held each of my babies in His hands long before I ever did.

My motherhood has never been separate from my faith—it has been the very ground where my worship was tested and made real.

So if you find yourself in a season where worship looks more like quiet faithfulness than loud praise, know this: God sees it. He receives it. And He calls it beautiful.

Today, I simply want to say that my life—imperfect as it is—is a testimony of His grace. Every child. Every scar. Every yes. It’s all for Him. He is worthy.

And I pray that my story whispers to your heart: Your life can be a living, breathing act of worship too. Right where you are. In the joy, in the stretching, in the surrender.

Happy Mother’s Day, dear friend. May your heart rest in His worth today.

 “Therefore, I urge you, brothers and sisters, in view of God’s mercy, to offer your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and pleasing to God—this is your true and proper worship.”

—Romans 12:1 (NIV)