Friday, August 3, 2012

This is What's Saving Me Right Now


So I'm told that "the glory of God is man fully alive."  But when the kids shout angry, and the belly hangs heavy, and the son's tooth is infected, and the nights blur into days, the life in me trickles out. And this longing for glory is left as a wee little puddle in the cellar of my soul. 

My husband knows this, reads me straight through, and this is why after dinner he sent me away.  He told me to leave.  God love him, he promised to clean and put the kids to bed while I'm gone.  Only a fool would turn down that offer.  So I left.  I packed up some books, headed to the Tea Leaf, drank a glorious rooibos chai latte, and ate up some scrumptious reading time.

I came back more fully alive, my mind quieted, my soul centered.  I came back noticing.  Each moment holds something.  I'm just usually too distracted to notice. But it's the very noticing of the moments, the living fully in them that is saving me right now.   


Pinned Image
framedart.com by by Conrad Knutsen
There's the moment my toddler boy stumbles into my arms, smelling of sleep, hair all askew.  This alone is worth waking for.  

Each morning I open the porch door.  There I see the blasted black cat that thinks he lives on our porch.  He's killed my potted herb basket, making it his nightly bed.  He can't be shooed or scared away.  Believe me, I've tried.  I'm quite certain I hate him.  But after the moment when I saw my daughter whack him with a broom and my son give him a fierce tiger roar, I realized feline hatred may not be a trait to pass onto my children.  So here's to learning to love (or at least tolerate) my enemy.  

There was the moment in the waiting room, as I listened to the screams of my two year old while daddy held him down for his tooth pulling.  I tried to choke down the pain in my heart, to hide behind the book I was reading to Ellie, but everything in me felt it deep and the tears fell.  Motherhood makes your heart all mush but demands the strength of steel. 

There was the moment I laid down on the kitchen floor (at 36 weeks pregnant) to get a good look at my son's tooth gap, him rolling his cars across the hard surface.  After a satisfactory check, I attempted to get up.  Like a walrus carcus washed ashore, I just sort of flopped there.  "I can't get up," I heaved.  My four year old erupted into a fit of unstoppable giggles, apparently finding my situation hilarious.  Her laughter was catching, so now I lay jiggling in stitches on the hard floor.  Nothing cleanses like belly laughs.  After a few deep breaths and a herculine effort, I somehow managed to get up.  And my daughter and I looked at each other, no words, just twinkles in our eyes and aches in our sides.  We'd just lived gloriously. 



Each moment a gift. A choice to fully live or muddle through.  To glory Him or trickle dry.  

 


 
 

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