There’s a kind of tired in motherhood that makes even talking to God feel too big. You still love Him. You still want to be the woman who opens her Bible and feels something other than the sudden urge to close her eyes for fourteen seconds. But then the baby cries, or spits up down the inside of your shirt in a place you can’t reach while holding her. And prayer becomes one more thing you miss. One more part of yourself you thought would follow you into motherhood, only to realize it got buried somewhere between the burp cloths,…