You going to wake up the kids? His words beckon my bone-tired body to breathe the breath of a new day. Morning has dawned, but I don’t want to wake. Don’t want to face the day. Don’t want to unleash all the warmth the comforter holds. It’s safe here. Here next to him. Him who knows me so well. Him who holds me when things seem both well and unwell. Safe here where the trials of our churches, the cries of our children, the worries of the day, the responsibilities can’t get in. It’s safe here where no one or nothing has a chance of breaking in. I don’t want anything to break in.
I rush upstairs. Always rushing. Tell the kids, like always, we are running late. Why am I always running late? Do other moms always run late? The oldest, she pulls the covers closer to her body, her frame curling underneath their weight. Just like me, she isn’t ready for the weight of this new day to break in. The boy, like other days, feigns sleep. I shake him briskly, tell him to ready himself for the day. It’s then that his smile breaks wide at me. Mischief is already there- written on his face. “You silly boy-you are already awake. You have your clothes on and everything.” He’s getting bigger. I can tell he won’t be a child forever, but his giggles are still large and little all at once… they are proof his child still remains. I can tell this joke he likes to make daily as of late, the one where he pretends he is still asleep, makes his heart glad. As I scurry to wake the next child-the one who often reminds me of me- I am thankful for what makes his heart glad.
I slide the milk across the table. Set five silver spoons next to five white bowls. The imperfect dishes have seen our imperfections over many meals. Have heard our giggles, complaints, yells, concerns, joys, and pains. Have weathered our love and loss. They have been here as we have grown. Why does it sometimes hurt to grow? The one-its brim is cracked. Nothing pretty to the eye, but usable just the same. Sometimes the cracks are what makes a beautiful thing. Just because something is weathered, doesn’t make it a damaged thing. It’s through the cracks that oft we see more clearly the beauty of a thing. Aren’t we all cracked, yet beautiful things?
I push them to hurry. Eat your food. Stop the fighting. There is always so much fighting. I hate the fighting. How will we make it out the door today? My best friend, he walks over to the table, pulls out the Bible and devotional- just like other mornings, this one is the same. I am in a hurry, but devotions can’t be hurried…he says this to me. He is teaching them the importance of breaking out the Bible at the beginning of the day. I have been so lax in my devotions lately. Maybe that’s why life…it seems to be getting to me. Ten eyes peer up from their cereal. When is the last time I made breakfast? I feel like “that mom.” The mom who is content to feed her kids the food that brings cancer and obesity. They raise their hands, ready to give their dad an answer. I don’t even remember what his question is. My eyes shift to the 2-year-old. Pipe quivers in her mouth, the way it always does. This habit has stuck with her since she was a wee baby. The milk that once filled her bowl is gone; only soggy cheerios remain. Her tiny hand raises proudly. She smiles that smile that always gets me. The one that is seen in her eyes-it’s all brown and filled with beauty. She has no answer for the question, just a want to be part of the family. Her smallness has caressed my frailty.
He says "amen," and then it’s off to the races again. Wet brush strangles my girl’s hair. Aren’t these things supposed to work magic? I can hardly believe she took a bath yesterday. You would think it has been a week with all the mess she created overnight. She yelps in pain-begins to get short with me. I’m that mom-the one who doesn’t brush gentle. The one who is more concerned with getting from A to B because others are probably already moving to C. Someday they will grow and remember how much they hated my harsh sweeps through their flaxen strings. But maybe someday it will be a memory. Someday maybe we will find laughter when we remember the way the oldest sang, "Girls in white dresses and blue satin sashes” as she tried to distract herself from the snarly pain. Someday maybe we will remember the silly honesty of the one who said, “Mom, you are squishing my brains.” Someday…maybe…
I step into the garage where the cold meets me unpleasantly…there is no warning. Yesterday fall was still kissed by summer’s hues, but today, the rain of the night remains. Winter is coming…finding ways to break in. I don’t want to go out to wave my kids goodbye. But isn’t that what a good mom would do? “It’s cold today, Mom,” my son tells me. I slip off my slippers and exchange them for something more waterproof. Slip off what the woman from church gave me. I can’t explain it, but they have become special to me. Smoky frost escapes the boy's lips, and he exhales lovingly, “You can hug me to keep me warm.” Warmth pierces my heart-breaking the icy places tucked deep within me. I smile. “Can I give you a big kiss when the bus comes too?” It’s a game now-to chase him as the bus nears, and for him to avoid my nurturing. He is getting older…yes it’s true. He is embarrassed when I love him too openly. Today I will hug him tightly as we wait. Will embrace him as this day continues to break. But the glimpse of yellow pulling to the edge of our driveway tells me this morning I won’t have a chance to draw him near. “See ya Mom.” And as usual, he asks, “Is my face clean?” I don’t have to wet my finger and scrub at his upper lip this morning. Don’t have to jest, “This is what good moms do,” as I smudge his stained face. No-today he is all set for what the day brings.
I wander back inside, wondering what to do first. Today is the first day in so many days I am home. No expectations. No commitments. Just home. I want to feel home. I grab a blanket, wrapping up neatly what feels about to break. Seven books stare me in the face. Which one do I pick up? And why do I always open a new one before I have a chance to finish the others? My baby girl crawls onto my lap and sits contentedly. She just wants nearness. Just wants togetherness with me. The four-year-old snuggles up next to me too. This is why devotions-they always seem like a faraway thing. But I can soul sing with smallness gathered next to me. Children just want you to be a near thing. I’m not very good at being consistent in drawing them to me. Today will be different. Today holds no responsibilities. I whisper this truth to my soul, and just as quickly sirens ring. One after the other, they join a chorus of emergency. I’m still getting used to this. All this noise, traffic, and busy. Getting used to these new notes that are becoming part of my story. Our lights flicker-a sign of uncertainty. And then they are extinguished-snuffing out the fire that this day brings. Breaking what is golden and instead bringing melancholy.
“Should we look out the window to see what’s happening?” My girl nods, and we unravel blankets from our beings. We crack open the door, but we can’t see anything. It’s an unknown thing. “I don’t know what happened sweetie.” “I do,” she states sincerely. “God did it.” Yes. God did it. He is there in our unknown things. He is not unknowing to all life brings. He is the Knower of all things.
Husband situates at the kitchen table-our place of gathering. His phone still works in the power outage, and books, they don’t need a battery. It’s unusual for him to work near the noise, but I don’t complain. Does he want to be near me? It doesn’t matter his reasoning. I feel wanted, and to feel wanted is one of the best things. I want to find his eyes but will settle for watching him from the couch carefully. Studious. Diligent. Seeking to live out his calling. I wonder if he knows how much I love him. Love this life he has created with me.
Shards of light illuminate fall’s trees that are emptying. They are shedding off old and preparing for new. Where is God shedding me? Preparing me? Making me new? Ember leaves quilt the ground beneath half-naked trees. Trees that stand firm amidst season's changing. I grab the laptop. There is a handful of things I need to work on writing. But when is the last time I wrote just for me? Wrote just to bring myself closer to the God who chose me? I break the device open. And I write because God broke this morning wide open with new mercies for me. The God who clothes the trees, will never leave me. In the dawn of this new day that He painted, He continues to pen more of my story.
Lights flicker back to life. “The light is back Mom!” “It never left,” I think. The light is just more noticeable when compared to a dark valley. What a beautiful thing…to recognize the break of the morning. To wake up to the Light of the morning. I’m finally waking up to see it more clearly. And in this moment, if but for a moment, the colors of the morning explode within me.
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