Sacred Art in a Mother’s Daily Life
Before my feet hit the floor in the morning, I’m usually already “on.” Someone needs something. The baby is babbling or crying. There are clothes on the floor, the dog needs to go out, or there's something from the day before still sitting where I meant to clean it up.
But before I reach for my phone or my to-do list, my eyes land on something quiet and still: a quote from Cardinal Mindszenty and a few prints of family life. There’s a mother sitting on the edge of her bed, just as I sit every morning, and another who’s fallen asleep in the middle of a long nursing session. They’re framed above my nightstand and across the room, placed intentionally so they’re the first thing I see. Mothers, just like me, encouraging me from back in time. The quote among them reads:
“The Most Important Person on earth is a mother. She cannot claim the honor of having built Notre Dame Cathedral. She need not. She has built something more magnificent than any cathedral—a dwelling for an immortal soul, the tiny perfection of her baby's body. The angels have not been blessed with such a grace. They cannot share in God's creative miracle to bring new saints to Heaven. Only a human mother can. Mothers are closer to God the Creator than any other creature; God joins forces with mothers in performing this act of creation. What on God's good earth is more glorious than this: to be a mother?”
I need that reminder not because I’m especially holy, but because I’m trying to be. It’s easy to forget that this work matters. I can get caught up in the grind of keeping house, answering cries, trying to make dinner on time, doing the same things again and again, and not all of them are pleasant (If you’ve ever cloth diapered, you know exactly what I mean).
The right piece of art, placed somewhere I’ll actually see it, helps me re-center. It nudges my thoughts in the right direction. It doesn’t have to be dramatic, but it shifts the tone of that moment.
When I walk into the nursery, I’m greeted by a similar theme. Above our daughter’s crib hang prints of the Holy Family surrounding a crucifix. My daughter is still little, but we want those to be among the first images she becomes familiar with. I know she doesn’t understand them yet, but beauty has a quiet way of forming us, especially when we’re small. I want her to feel the love and protection that a simple crucifix can provide. Besides, seeing Christ crucified puts the late-night wakings into perspective.
Above her changing table is an image of the Blessed Mother, flanked by prints of two Marian hymns. I wonder how often Mary changed the diaper of the Creator of the Universe. She didn’t escape the ordinary tasks. She embraced them. That thought helps me do the same. Even this small, daily act of care can be holy.
I’ll grab the baby and walk down the hall, passing a print of The Angelus. A man and woman pause their work in the middle of a field to pray. It’s peaceful and quiet, and every time I see it, it’s an invitation. A reminder to pause. Even if I’m carrying the baby and trying not to trip over toys or the dog. It’s far harder to ignore the noontime prayer if an image of it being prayed is in the room!
In our dining room, we have polaroid photos of saints tacked up on the wall like vigilant dinner guests. If I’m honest, I threw them up on that wall in the chaos of moving into our house, not thinking they would stay long term. Now, I keep them there because of the conversation they spark. Friends and family sit at our table and ask why these saints are important to us. More importantly, they remind me a thousand times over as I pass by that there are people who’ve done this before and done it well. Some of them lived quiet, ordinary lives just like mine and stayed faithful in it.
None of these things magically make my day easier. They don’t stop the meltdowns or help me get more sleep. But they do help me remember what all of this is for. They keep my heart pointed toward Christ, even when my hands are full.
When the house is loud or messy, sacred art helps me come back to peace. It helps me remember that my work is holy, even if it’s hidden. I’m not just managing a household or surviving motherhood. I’m building something eternal. These little visual reminders feel like quiet encouragements. They don’t scold or shame. They just stand nearby, pointing me back toward the kind of woman, wife, and mother I want to be.
It can start small as a crucifix above the sink or a prayer card image taped to the fridge. Wherever you need the reminder most is where it ought to be.
We become what we behold, and I want to behold what is beautiful.
