Enough

2am, wide-eyed.

I reach for my glasses and put them on and lie there in the dark. This is how I have been. Equipped to see; still in the dark. I roll out of bed, stepping lightly over the little breaths and goldie locks on the mattress next to mine, careful not to wake her already restless sleep.

I switch on the light. Hanging laundry and half taught school lessons adorn the living room. Old scents and stuffiness hang in the air. Lists and lists of things I should do and things I should’ve done plague me. Condemn me. I try to stuff them deeper into the pile of mental procrastination. I put on the kettle.

Type up lessons. Clean the toilet. Fold the clothes. Sweep the floor. Write emails. Write thank-yous. Read the Bible. Point to Christ. Plan a date-night. Brush my teeth. Don’t throw up. Be grateful. Don’t be anxious. Don’t worry.

Don’t worry.

It’s the worrying –and a 4pm Coke– that has kept me up. Anxious thoughts that stalk my sleep. Where will the money come from? Where will we find a bigger place? How will we afford it? How long until the car is fixed? I pray as I sweep the floor, feeble words that barely make it from my desperate heart to my lips:

How in the world are we supposed to do what You have called us to do with what we have here, Lord? Your ways are such a mystery and right now I need a little less mystery and a little more certainty.

Because right now it feels like I am dying.

I dance, cloth underfoot, to the sound of the bottle of bleach solution squeaking as I spray. Foot wiping the strong smell across the swept floor. Trying to usher in a little clean.

I am tired of dying every day. Not the death that begets life, the Christ-like cross bearing, life-giving death. Not that one. The death that yields only more of itself, consuming until all life is gone. And I am tired of it. Because I know this road. The one that leads me to the pit of despair time and time again. The frequented path of “not enough” that brings me to death faster than anything else. Not enough money. Not enough time. Not enough faith. Not good enough. Not enough. Never enough.

I return to the kettle. The scents of yesterday’s trash and meals and dust mingle. I am nauseous. I pour the hot water over my green tea and fresh mint. I inhale. I sip. I find the worn place in the middle of the couch and sink in. Pause. Breathe; not too deep. I open my devotional and look for a little less worry and a little more life.

3am warrants a new day’s reading:

“As you keep your focus on Me, I form you into the one I desire you to be. Your part is to yield to My creative work in you, neither resisting it or trying to speed it up. Enjoy the tempo of a God-breathed life by letting Me set the pace. Hold my hand in childlike trust, and the way before you will open up step by step.” (January 25, Jesus Calling, p. 26)

I revel in the wonder of it.

I “know” that I must focus on Him, to yield; but all I really know is resisting. Resisting struggle. Resisting pain. Resisting quiet. Resisting discipline. Resisting perseverance. Because this self-preserving flesh of mine will fight for the life it thinks it deserves. Fight to the death for it. And I am losing. And it is killing me.

Because in the end, I end up resisting Love. I resist Love’s persistent, tenacious, tender, violent labors to bring me life, real life.

I sip my tea, hands cupped around, a bit cooler now. I turn and peer out the undressed windows, the world waiting. The early morning worries, the demands for certainty, they begin to slip away.

The certainty I seek is in Him. Him alone. I am asking the wrong questions. I am looking for the wrong answers. There is only one Answer, and it lies in this mysterious God of mine who keeps befuddling me with His lavishly poured-out, paradoxical grace and sacrificial love. That I might have life, and life in abundance.

Brisk daybreak-colored morning greets me as I crack the window. I breathe it in. Clean. Full of life. I throw the window open. I walk down the hall and quietly peel back the curtains. I open wide the morning. Next, the kitchen. Fresh. Life. It invigorates this weary, day old body, this tired, dying soul. I let the stale out.

I open my heart and let the stale out of there, too. I commit today to stop my whining. To embrace “God-breathed life.” To choose an attitude of gratitude for all He has given, rather than complain to Him for all I perceive He has withheld.

A door creaks. Little steps whisper on a clean floor.

“Mommy?”

Adara squints and rubs sleepy eyes as she stands there, hair tousled. She comes to me and climbs up into my lap and snuggles close to my warmth to escape the cool I have let in. I brush the hair from her forehead and softly kiss it and say “I love you.” She stretches a not-quite-5am-stretch.

“I love you, too.”

So I choose to begin my day here. Counting this blessing. Grateful for the bundle of love lying in my arms, and the life that is waiting for me today.

Because what I already have is more than enough.

Help

This morning I sit, window beside. Golden light streams over the mountain crest, through wispy tendrils of willow. Birds sing their morning song. Promises of what the new day can hold are before me.

And I am sour. Stale.

Having steeped in my own complaining the night before, the hardness of my heart is like a shell. I feel tight. The delight of fasting escapes me. All I can do is long for things I cannot have and complain of all I do. “Really, manna again?” I find myself longing for old things, old ways, knowing somewhere in my heart that these must pale in comparison to my God, to what He is doing. But they don’t, not right now.

Because right now He is at work in me, in this ungrateful heart, and revealing things I am not proud of, which I guess is the point. Unbelief. Complaint. Worry. Absence of trust. Lack of love. This is me. I know that there needs to be change. But it seems overwhelming. It seems impossible. It seems too hard.

The beauty of the nearness of God is not the same. It seems hidden. He is teaching me a new way. I do not like it.

So I am stalled at a crossroad.

In this early hour I turn, more out of duty than love, out of obligation than obedience, to the Word. Today it is like bitter medicine: I know it is good for me but it is hard to take.

Bright eyes peek over my computer screen.

He is eager to try out his new skills. He is full of joy, excitement.

“Mommy, see, see, see!”

Caleb collects all the elements to make himself breakfast. I have taught him carefully, and though he has not mastered it, I have released him. He can do it all by himself. Even then, cinnamon on a high shelf, to which he shimmies up cabinetry like a little monkey. He can do it all. Except to get the bowl. He asks me for help. “It’s like teamwork, Mommy.” Whoops, some sugar spills over. He starts to clear it himself and thinks twice. “Can you clean up the sugar for me? You can do it now, if you like.” I set my things aside and partner with him. He shakes a nearly empty milk container. He asks for advice and I oblige. Bowl full, he shuffles his feet slowly—inch by inch, tiny step by tiny step. “Balancing.” Making his way to the table with great care. “Can you move the laundry off the table for me please?” He sits down to partake of this morning feast, which he has prepared.

All by himself. With help.

I realize the source of my misery. I have been trying, striving. Working hard to get rid of bad habits. Wrong thoughts. Wrong ways. Trying to live rightly, holy. All by myself. And with every independent effort I am confronted with the ugly truth: I cannot do it. Not just me, not alone. This new way He is teaching me is the way of dependence. Complete dependence upon Him. “God blesses those who are poor and realize their need for Him, for the Kingdom of Heaven is theirs.”

I glimpse Him. He is near.

I ask for help.

I am tired. I am weary. I am failing. I have been trying to overcome without leaning on the Overcomer. I need You. Help me, Holy Spirit. I cannot do this without You. Teach me. Show me the way. I need You.

Sunlight streams in through the window now, warming my shoulder, highlighting a hungry mouth devouring in delight. My heart feels warmer.

I am hungry, too.

I turn back to my Bible. Pray about everything. Tell Me what you need. Thank Me. You will experience My peace, peace that guards your heart and mind. Fix your thoughts on good things, things that are pure, lovely, true. Practice what you have learned and received. Then My peace will be with you.

A way. The Way. And in this extraordinary partnership, His greatness and my great need, tiny step by tiny step, I move forward.

It is a new day. And it is going to be beautiful.

With help.