I scrub dishes like it’s my job. Motherhood? Full-time dish washer. Comes with bonus of raising five small humans who run at top-speed. Fighting and dirt included. Throw in a little laundry and lack of sleep, and that’s what my calling feels like today. I’m a frazzled mess. I would say, “hot mess,” but my husband doesn’t understand what that phrase means. I assure him if I at least say, “hot mess,” it will sound cooler than how the situation actually feels. Yes, I have even debated getting a T-shirt that shouts the theme song, “Hot Mess,” just so the whole world knows I’m well aware I’m hardly keeping it together. Today is one of those days. Get these dishes done before supper so when we finish eating I can quick throw kids in bed, shout my I love yous, and move along with my night, gearing up for the morrow. Today has been tiring. Today my body has trudged along, and my mind just isn’t keeping up. I’m behind. Thoughts have encompassed me hard and long. My people are there, stamped on my heart. They surround my corners, reminding me of all the sorrows we bear. A pit of pain. A multitude of disappointment. It’s true, daily we are disappointed. And sometimes it’s hard to keep up and be present amidst all the unpredictable. It’s that feeling that things should be different than they are. Circumstances should be better, relationships unstrained. Disappointment? It’s an unexpected guest that doesn’t even have the courtesy to knock.
There’s something deep inside me that wishes it didn’t have to be this way. That parents didn’t bury children. That youth didn’t go astray. That children were protected from mopping up the so called needs of their predators. That cancer treatments didn’t become the normal air some households have come to breathe. That families didn’t have division and strife. That brother didn’t gossip about brother, bringing one another low, leaving bruises that won’t ever completely heal. That maybe we could live in a world where spouses didn’t tear at or forsake one another. There’s something so devastating knowing we live broken. And today is one of those days. Satan is coddling me close in the hopes of crushing my spirit. He is there tempting me to take in the pain, intense and slow. To breathe in all the shattered. Close my eyes and smell the putrid stench of death and sorrow all around. He slithers out, “See? Your God is the One doing this. He is breaking your loved ones apart. He is slaying your people. He is far off, but me? I am right here.” It’s true, there’s a part of me that wants to throw up my hands and say, “You are right. God is a disappointing Father who fails to hold His people in their most desperate times of need.” “How long O Lord?” is wailed in the silent places of my heart. “How long will you forget Your people?” Yes, there is much disappointment as we till this weeded life. My enemy is trying to isolate me, for that is where he can influence me.
I scour spaghetti stained Corelle under steaming water. As if I’m trying to scrub away the grime this earthly life has left behind. I glance up, look out smudged windowpane that has never been cleaned by my hands since we have lived here. I feel like that should bother me, but it doesn’t. It comes to my hazel pondering eyes clearly, nonetheless. Little ones are scampering with delight in full circle. Winter boots and backwards helmet array my soil faced three-year-old. Son throws back his head in laughter. Bubbles glisten wonderfully against the backdrop of spring. Suds all color in sky. They dance boldly, with hope. They begin to burst one by one. Only given life for so long. They bring joy and then pop suddenly, but surely. Children make more. There is an abundance of pearly spheres giving light to heavens. Child dreams fly high with each sparkle blown from lips. Somehow that makes me pause. God-given selah. Suds from hands drop to towel as suds from lips of children blow me to my front porch. God is telling me something.
I feel like a bubble in this life. Short. Given delight for only so long until I burst with some of the sorrows of the pilgrimage. It’s a constant cycle of joy and pain. I sit and take in clouds engulfing the blues of sky. I shut blind eyes. Lord, help me to see. Yes, He is here, faithful and true. My life is but sky, strokes painted so perfectly by Him. Parts are hidden from my view, covered by whisps of cloud. I can’t make out those hidden pieces, but the white puffs are His grace, sheltering what my eyes are not strong enough to behold. He knows if I knew the whys of life that it would be too daunting. His grace is given and revealed daily, leading me through life slowly. And I am sure this is nothing short of a love story He is writing for me.
I don’t have the answers to all the tough situations we face as a body of Christ. The truth is, there is probably more turmoil ahead. That is what we are promised in this life. A painful process of being led home. Could God strip the tough stuff away? Yes, I suppose He could. But that would also rob us of the glorious hope that lies ahead. Lesser loves disappoint so we are consistently and passionately given desire for our True Love. I perceive God gives hardships that create discontent with this discouraging life so we long for a place that holds no more tear-stained pillows and burden-backed people. In this season of sorrow my friend, God isn’t trying to be distant or uncaring. He’s being merciful. He's writing your love story. Remember that in your gut-wrenching “how longs?...” It’s like Jesus declares to his questioning disciples in the book of Acts before he ascended on the clouds of glory, “It is not for you to know the times or the seasons, which the Father hath put in His power.” Jesus was leaving…again. They were disheartened. Yet, it was not for them to understand the time of His return. However, the Lord of glory would have them to witness of Him through the Holy Spirit. So too, we don’t need to comprehend the seasons He has powerfully put before us. We have but to be a witness in them.
They break my thoughts as little feet come running into front porch with dandelions in hand. “For you Mom!” More dandelions. I always thought they were a weed, but google informed me they can be weed or flower. I guess it just depends on what your eyes want to see. They place them in wine glasses and set them next to store bought blossoms. They don’t compare really. The fine florets given for Mother’s Day are extraordinary standing near these hand-picked yellows. Yet, there is something about these bright-headed beauties my children have tended to so carefully. They were chosen with love. Just for me. They will shrivel quickly the way dandelions do. They will go from their rich amber to fatal black in a day. But these wildflowers are me. Us. They are here only for a time until they return to seed and blow gracefully, hopefully, in wind. Yes, we are jewels given short life until gusted by breeze to our second Eden. I know God is Gardener, and He perfectly plants the joys and disappointments of this life to lead us home. And that knowledge gives endurance to walk the 86,400 seconds that make up today.
We view field of dandelion on our walk. Magnificent. Robed in gold. I think of all God’s people in those blossoms. I wonder what is tilting them over in life, where they feel stunted in their growth. The kids blow tiny gray seeds from flowers to breeze. Throwing their wishes high to sky like prayers lifting to heaven. I read that dandelions are good for you. That when you eat them, they provide health benefits. I see them spin in wind and prayer is lost from my lips- Father, help us bring health to one another too. That as we grow in this earthly life, we nurture instead of weed whack at one another’s roots. Indeed, I am a flower. God’s choicest treasure making up part of His glorious bouquet. Flower of His heart. Fragile and fair. Yes, Lord, help us to see one another as fragile and fair. Formed and Fit for You.
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