It’s hard to write. To force my thoughts into one cohesive whole. To put pen to paper and ink out the day. Thus far.
The rhythmic music of water swirling in dishwasher plays almost too loud. The littles are in beds – son quietly playing antics, daughter resting sound. All of us full of sin this day. The day after Easter. And all of us, hearts with sin- me most of all.
My patience is biting. Jaw clenches. Words are hurled. There are tears and pains and i want to run and hide and bury myself away from it all. But my son’s tiny arms warp me in forgiveness. I tell him I’m so sorry– that mommy shouldn’t speak to him that way. He tells me It’s okay. He loves me- his tiny heart holds nothing against me. Oh his tenderheartedness- I pray right there for him to never lose that dearest of heart traits.
And then I grow fearful of the example I have set out before him. Temper flared and lashing out. Hot and angry and burning the words had come out of my throat. Oh may the grace of God cover this too.
I watched as my children played together- pirate figures and fairies. Neverland has come to my house. And isn’t that what I always wanted? To have children of my own- to play down on floors and hide away in tents- in their world of make believe?
But the pains of pregnancy consume my thoughts. The exhaustion. The agonies and their continual, unhindered attack of my body. I wear thin. And bitterness creeps at the corners of the mind.
I look for the joy- Force myself to see the joy. To open my eyes past the dark, to see through the lens of light. I feel I am grasping at straws, desperate for a sip of joy to quench this dryness in my soul-
Son eating five pancakes round this morning, pink lips sticky.
Pouty little girl faces – grunting and scrunching face her forms of expressing thought.
Baby girl chatter, so determined and forceful, saying something- many things- a long list of things. She says it well, whatever it is, and I listen hard and focus in and watch her intent to try to sense out what it is – these words that are coming out of her tininess.
Maddie’s language all her own.
The floors are mess, but upstairs isn’t bad. Piles of laundry are eating away the master bedroom- clean and awaiting proper placement. And a load sits dirty in washer. Another sits clean in dryer. And I sit in chair.
The groceries are demanding and lists are insistent. And I sit. I don’t want to push the pain of my body- to increase the aching. To egg on the bitterness.
I stop. Seek a joy…
new leaves green springing on baby oak.
daughter’s buckets stacked with love.
husband’s brown leather boots sitting quiet and ready.