entry seven

I wish I was writing this down in my journal- to be copied here later after I savored the etching of pen across leafs of fine paper. But alas, head-colds and slow healing jaw and pains of pregnancy do not permit me such luxury. So here I sit. And here I type.

fingers talking on ink black keys. 

This last week has been hard. But isn’t it always? This hardness seems to pound and reverberate throughout my being until it is the only language I seem to know how to speak. That of complaint. agony. frustration. hurt.

The rough harshnesses are the easiest of times to remember at the end of a long un-ending day. The grace, the thankfulness of grace, the joy from the thankfulness of those graces daily- those slip away softly and I don’t even grasp at them. Not at the end of a week like this last week. Not at the end of one of those languishing days.

The day ends and I want to slip away- into darkness- calm. quiet. peace. refreshment. rest. Just a breath that sits deep in my lungs and is in no hurry to be released.

I feel anger. Searing the contours of my throat and wanting to bleed out in harsh retaliation to what I conceive as my injustice. I want to be understood in this place by those who should want to be here, but aren’t. And how do I let this go? All of these feelings being tumbled from lips without any form of restraint? And the bitterness takes hold. And the tears burn hot down my cheeks. And the one person I want to be holding me doesn’t seem to even care. And I am looking all wrong.

I am equine wearing blinders- and I fight the Driver’s gentle guide. I see what I want for me in these hard moments- I turn to what I see as comfort and security and peace of mind. I’m tunnel visioned to this world and the things that have come from it. Instead of the One who made and orchestrated and spoke it into its very existence.

He gives me help. Why am I not satisfied? Why do I beg and cry out and plead with Him for a relief, and then don’t recognize it when it’s right before my face?

friends who give their hands and their time to help provide for my family when I cannot. 

I am just like my children. I may see my Father’s provision at a moment but in the aftermath I forget all that He has provided. I forget His promises. And I go back to trusting in my own configurations of how things should unfold. I forget that His answers and His provisions and His plans are best. perfect. incomparable.

wand of orange leaving trail of opalescent bubbles floating through air. 

Maddie lies flat back on quilt and giggles slightly around fingers betwixt lips as she watches the bubbles glide listlessly above her face. Her eyes squint and her belly laughs when the little floating orbs get close to her face. And I smile at my daughter. And then I am fearing for her wellbeing as my son crashes across the quilt to chase and pop and chase again.

The humid muggy weather surrounds me- almost uncomfortably– but the joy of the moment keeps me rooted in place. I twirl in a circle, son at heels, and the bubbles escape from the wand again- boy flies off after bubbles. They float and they dance and he claps his hands in pursuit of them.

bubbles burst.

boy cheers.


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