Wednesday 22 February 2017
God Who Hears (Gen 21:17)
Day in and day out, I question whether I did enough, said the right things, guided without crushing their spirits. I don't want to be a good enough parent, I want to rock this. I want them to know love and be able to give it, know empathy and be able to show it, know respect and be able to bestow it. I want them to find the things they are good at, the things that bring them joy and ignite their passion. I want them to care for themselves, each other, and the world. I want them to know and be known by their Creator. I want them to ride the waves of joy and grief, blessing and loss, and feel securely anchored in God's love and mine. All of which sounds awesome until I find myself in the midst of tantrums and meltdowns and the mess of day-to-day. And then He interrupts. What is the matter? Don't be afraid: I have heard the boy crying as he lies there. You are the God who hears, and I am so thankful that you are attuned to the cries of my heart. But, You are also the God who hears my boys, and I am unburdened as I place them and all their needs in Your bigger, wiser, stronger hands.
Monday 6 February 2017
A Week Without
Day One: Her mom's joy and her dad's pride are enough to carry me through this weirdly anticlimactic day I've been dreading and waiting for for months. I am not her momma anymore.
Day Two: Texts from her new home fill some of the emptiness in my heart. As do the countless expressions of support and prayer from family and the reminder of the Truth on which I stand. I am not alone anymore.
Day Three: The missing grips me and I bury my head in another novel; maybe someone else's story will hurt less than mine today. I am not strong anymore.
Day Four: I know that only time can heal, but time is not cooperating. It crawls lazily and nothing I do succeeds in hurrying it along. I kick it once more anyway, because I have to try. I am not gracious anymore.
Day Five: It aches below my ribcage but above my stomach. How does it feel like both a mass and a vacuum all at once? I am not whole anymore.
Day Six: I slow myself down on the outside, trying to live in each moment. Maybe if I soak in the goodness of the precious ones around me, I won't dwell on the one who is no longer mine to hold. It almost works. I am not calm anymore.
Day Seven: Is it a bit better today or is it just the chocolate talking? Either way, distractions start to distract and joys start to bring joy. I am not absorbed anymore.
Day Two: Texts from her new home fill some of the emptiness in my heart. As do the countless expressions of support and prayer from family and the reminder of the Truth on which I stand. I am not alone anymore.
Day Three: The missing grips me and I bury my head in another novel; maybe someone else's story will hurt less than mine today. I am not strong anymore.
Day Four: I know that only time can heal, but time is not cooperating. It crawls lazily and nothing I do succeeds in hurrying it along. I kick it once more anyway, because I have to try. I am not gracious anymore.
Day Five: It aches below my ribcage but above my stomach. How does it feel like both a mass and a vacuum all at once? I am not whole anymore.
Day Six: I slow myself down on the outside, trying to live in each moment. Maybe if I soak in the goodness of the precious ones around me, I won't dwell on the one who is no longer mine to hold. It almost works. I am not calm anymore.
Day Seven: Is it a bit better today or is it just the chocolate talking? Either way, distractions start to distract and joys start to bring joy. I am not absorbed anymore.
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