Beauty for Ashes

Peace snuck up on me as She snuggled in for her bottle and The Three lounged around us on the couch in various stages of planes/rockets/landing pads construction.  You said, "See?  See how full your heart can be?  This is of me."  And from the seed of peace was born a fragile sprout of joy.

My heart wavers, but my feet stand solidly upon this confession: You bestow a crown of beauty for these ashes, joy for this mourning, and praise for this despair.  You are Redeemer and this grief is not the one grief you cannot redeem.

I will not be shaken.  May my heart join me up here on this Rock so that we may sing for joy.

Joy

Choosing joy because You are big enough to bring it forth from these ashes.  Choosing joy because it is only I who cannot see the ending You hold confidently in Your hands.  Choosing joy because she deserves a momma who delights in her.  Choosing joy because I will not colour her world with my grief.  Choosing joy because it is the weapon of the overcomer.  Choosing joy because You rejoice over me with singing.  In the very choosing of joy, I recognize the ever-present grief that this life embodies, but I refuse to give it the power.  This day I will live joyfully.

It's too much and I'm too tired.  The fixing of one mess only leads to the recognizing of another, which I start to remedy only to find a third.  By the time I get to the end of the domino effect, my knees are sore, my head is pounding, and four children have called me forty-seven times and why can't I ever just finish one thing before I start another - if I could remember that one thing in the first place.  It's too much and I'm too tired and the peanut m&ms I'm popping on the way through the kitchen don't even help anymore.  Papa, I can't do this anymore because on top of it all are the things that actually matter.  Like respect and compassion, kindness and love, honesty and integrity.  Or heck, even just table manners.  I can't shape their behaviour and pour into their hearts and pick up their stuff and make their snacks and sing their songs and delight in their ideas and photograph their moments and appreciate their presence and do their laundry and meet their needs.  Papa, it's too much and I'm too tired and can't she just sleep through the night and can't they just pick up their own damn toys and wet towels and listen the first time?  Papa, where is Your glory or Your grace or Your goodness or any of You in all of this?