Another Day

I let Nathan put Caleb and Adara to bed.  

I am frustrated for ending another day as the “maintenance man.”  It feels as if I maintain all day long.  

Character.  Toys.  Behavior.  Chores.   

But not really making progress in any of those areas.  

I let Sadie cry for a minute, wanting that one minute to myself as work on the puzzle occupying a portion of my bedroom floor.  I glance over its skeleton edge, the interruption of links in the right hand corner.  I think we are already missing a piece and wonder if it is a futile effort to continue.  Sadie is unrelenting and I abandon my poorly planned Me Time to feed her.

I spend my night, the time of quiet when the children are asleep and it is just me and my husband, tidying up.  I am almost on the verge of anxiety knowing that there are still little piles needing to be unpacked and sorted behind clean-looking cupboards.   

I pick up a trail of tiny pastel rubber bands that lead to a handful of sequin headbands and three santa hats.  I toss Nerf guns and styrofoam ammo, which litter the pantry entryway, into a toy basket.    I resign myself to leaving the couch disheveled, deciding not to fluff and place the pillows because by the time I make my way downstairs in the morning the two older children will have made a tent, or boat, or war trench out of them and I will find them on the floor anyway.  

I follow a succession of messes around the house.  Why don’t the children EVER clean up after themselves?  Is it too much to expect them to put their toys away?  I am weary from what feels like wasted effort running a home.  I finish up.  Nathan suggests I take a bath.  Read a magazine.  Relax.  

But I don’t want to relax.  Because if I relax I will just continue to dwell on how utterly frustrated I am with my kids, and ultimately with myself, and have the “I’ve-had-several-life-changes-all-at-once” emotional meltdown I have been anticipating for the last few months.  No, I don’t want to relax.  I want to veg.  I just want to shut off my brain and emotions for a little bit and then go to bed.  I sign on to my computer and log on to Facebook.

As I scroll down the newsfeeds I see one post and immediately I know that this is not going to be a veg session.

“I just have such a deep, deep ache for these families right now”

Post after post of prayers, condolences, and comments.  

For Sandy Hook.  

I don’t know what this is.  I don’t read the news, or even headlines, because I don’t want to know things.  Because the consequences of sin are so painful, so heart-wrenchingly unbearable sometimes that I at some point I have to shield my heart or I will be overwhelmed with hopelessness and grief.   But I go in search of this headline tonight.  Something about it is tugging at my soul.  I immediately find it.  I don’t even need to read the article.  I now know what Sandy Hook is.  And it is unbelievably tragic.  

I am ashamed at my own thoughts and behavior of the evening.  I have whined over the petty and been wholly ungrateful.  Halfway around the world there is a mother who will not have the privilege of tucking in her child tonight and have I carelessly forfeited mine.   In an instant headbands and scattered toys and cushions take their appropriate places in the order of things significant.  

Oh God, forgive me.  

Forgive me for being so focused on myself that I was blind to the gift that was today, to moments that could have been treasured instead of tiring.  Help me, Holy Spirit, to remember that the road of Love is always self sacrificing and that the gift of sacrifice is a gift of Love.  Oh how I need your Love to fill me. 

Comfort those parents who are devastated in their grief.  Heavenly Father, who better than You can understand the death of a beloved child to the brutality of sin.  May they find solace in You.

  

I don’t waste another minute.  My frustrations, my selfishness, my sour attitude, I leave them in search of something different.  Something better.

I find some tired bunting and pushpins in one of the cupboard stacks.  Downstairs, I  balance precariously on a chair, pinning the fraying flags onto the wooden beam that joins the open kitchen to the lounge.  It is not beautiful but it is inspired.  I go to the pantry and pull out the ingredients for a breakfast the children can help me make: chocolate pancakes!  Then I borrow the children’s tin of markers and write.  “Mommy loves Caleb.”  “Mommy loves Adara.”  I nearly stop there, but I know that they will ask me about Sadie and Daddy, and they would be ever so right.  So I make a message for each precious member of my family and sticky-tack all of the love notes to the wall nearest the breakfast table.  I can’t wait for the children to see.  These ridiculously simple efforts will not go unnoticed by them.  They will love them, and I will love the children loving them.  

What a wonderful way to embrace the day.

A new day. 

With so much love.

Each moment sacred.  

When they wake up they will ask why.  They will ask if it’s Christmas.  They will want to know what makes this day so special.  And I will have the honor of telling them:  Because this day is here.  And so are we.  We are awake.  We have breath.  We are a family.  We can celebrate of our family, that God chose each one of us to be in this family, and the fact that this very morning we GET to share today together.   And regardless of how we lived yesterday, regardless of how we treated each other then, we have the gift of another day, this moment right now.  Let us use it well.  Let us choose to use it with Love.

Beauty

Beauty is in the eye of they beholder. 

As I drive through the wintery scene, my eyes behold.

I am in wonder of all the color. The sky's transition from afternoon to dusk, fraught with blues and whites melting into rose and ochre. The sun behind a cloud scrim, beams escaping through hidden pockets, muted light streaming over craggy plateaus. The mountains morphing into a misty mauve as the sun begins its descent behind the horizon.

Even the dry and dormant fields are bursting with their own seasonal expressions: Long, brittle barley-colored grasses with hughes of pink line the roadside, blushing as i pass by. Khaki velds cover the landscape. Papery leaves dressed in sage and cinnamon still cling lightly to slender trees. Willows, with their long, naked tendrils, gently sway to an invisible breath. Here and there, patches of charcoal and ash, where farmers have carefully burned away the remnence of last season.

I drive by a privately owned piece of land full of zebra, wildebeest, ostrich, and small antelope.

In moments like these, when I look out into the creation of this majestic land, and behold the beauty, my heart whispers in awe:

I get to live in Africa. 

But it was not always this way.

I embarked to southern Africa six years ago with obedience in my heart and frivolous, naive impressions of Disney's "The Lion King" dancing in my mind. My introduction was anticlimactic, and my merry, sing-song fantasies were dashed once met by the dry, dead, wintery reality before me.

En route to the new home I had never seen, I was greeted by the grim remains of autumn harvests. The previous season's strong stalks of emerald, with amber tufts and golden kernels peeking out from their wrapping, were empty shells, ghosts of maize.  Sunflowers, once blazing with color, necks stretched on poles of graceful green, faces bathing in summer's sun; now hung their dull and withered heads deep into their aged and hollow chests.

Radiance replaced by winter's cold, cruel hand. 

Even the sky's blue seemed icy and uninviting.

When I gazed upon the sunflower graveyards, field after field of them, my heart became faint.

How could I survive in a land devoid of beauty and life and everything that would make my heart sing?

God, what have you called me to?

I drive on to my destination lingering on these, my earliest memories of this place. I puzzle over them, looking at the stunning landscape I am privileged to behold. Why did I despair so? Then I remember: God makes all things beautiful in His time.

But it is not the land that has changed. 

It is myself.

Over these years, something has taken place on the inside of me. The careful forming and reforming, working and reworking, under the skillful hands of the Master Potter, making pliable again a heart that was, in fact, hard and unyielding. In this, the ongoing process of softening and shaping, transforming me into the likeness of His Son, I am slowly, albeit sometimes painfully, evolving into what I was destined to become: God's masterpiece, created anew in Christ Jesus.

It is in this reformation, this metamorphosis that imparts the beauty of my Maker into my heart, that I become a thing of beauty myself.

Which then enables me, weakly but surely enough, to see the beauty in every thing. 

I smile behind the driver's wheel. 

I get to live in Africa. 

And my heart sings: behold.

Lessons

The smell of lamb shanks hangs deliciously in the air.  Nathan reads a passage to the children, one on either side of him.  Jesus is washing the feet of his disciples; their dirty, stinky, filthy feet.  The feet that no one wanted to touch.  The feet that all of the disciples were “too good” to touch.  Because after all, that was a servant’s job.

And there is Jesus, the King of Heaven and Earth, stooping down in this servant role before his friends.  Here is the Master, the Teacher; everything that He does holds great significance.  Every moment is a teachable one.  His actions, on his knees in humility, mystify each student.  This act of selfless love, so unlike any they have ever seen, is the lesson that they must learn.  That they must model.  That they must live.  Because this act, unbeknownst to the small fellowship, is just a taste, simply a prelude, to the greatest act of selfless Love the world would ever know. 

As father reads, babes listen. I fill the small basin I have procured from beneath the kitchen sink.  And I listen.  I ponder this washing of feet preceding the carrying of the cross.  I am convicted.  How can I ever claim to be ready to lay down my life if I am not yet prepared to humble my heart, to embrace the worn and aching souls that have traversed the gritty ground between birth and eternity?  

The familiar story reminds me that there is something intimately related between the washing of feet and the crucifixion:  The humility of the heart.  The willingness to go to the very depths for the sake of Love, no matter the cost.  Am I prepared to walk that road, selfless and sacrificial?  I don’t know.  I want to say yes, rashly promising to follow Jesus anywhere, in any circumstance.  But then, so did the disciples of Jesus.  Before they truly understood what it meant to follow Him.  Before they truly understood what it meant to drink from His cup.  Before, in their fear, they left Him. 

Do I even truly understand?

Maybe I do not.  Not really, not in fullness.  But even the ones who abandoned Jesus returned; returned in strength.  Still not knowing fully, but more fully willing.  I do not want to offer hasty agreements.  I want to be moved by this offering of Love, this offering the disciples finally came to understand.  Came to embrace.  Came to live out.  As Jesus lived.  I want to offer a loyal promise of a love-sick bride who, not knowing every obstacle that will challenge her declaration of commitment, presses on towards devotion and presses into the Love to whom she is promised.

I am willing.  Patient Teacher, lead me down the path of selfless love that you have laid, that you have tread.  Show me what it means to endure because of the joy set before me.  Step by step, however slowly I may move, may I always be moving towards Love, towards You. 

I do not let guilt steal the moment.  I kneel before my son and, as the passage concludes with song, I follow the example of my Teacher.  As I wash, Nathan asks Caleb, “Why did Jesus wash the feet of His friends?”

Caleb answers, “Because they were dirty.  And because He loved them.”

“And do you know why mommy is washing your feet?”

“Because she loves me.”

And though there is still much to be gained from the passage, from this beautiful demonstration of servanthood and selflessness, the most basic, the most crucial element is grasped: LOVE.

“Mommy, can I wash your feet?”

I am caught off guard.  I want to say, “No, no, you don’t have to.  This is my gift to you.”  But then I only offer half of the lesson.  And I rob him of the joy of serving the one he loves.  I think of the woman who, with her very tears, washed Jesus’ feet.  So grateful for the grace that He extended towards her.  He did not stop her from expressing the deep gratitude that was welling up and spilling over from her heart.  He received the beauty of her gift to Him. 

Tears sting my eyes.  In his heart, my son is learning.  After all these years, I am still learning.  And, together, we partake in the alive-message that transcends and transforms. 

“Yes, my boy, you can.”

Adara has her turn, eager toes wiggling with excitement.  Then Caleb instructs me to sit and he tenderly wipes the cloth over my feet.  Adara, following brother’s lead, dries.

This is what Christ modeled.  That we would not only serve with Love, but that we would guide others on the path to do the same.  That we might model and teach and pass on this gift of Love.  And as I have received the gift from generations past, I now pass it onto my children.  The foundation of their hearts holding glimpses of the Kingdom.  Their spirits learning to live lives of Love. 

And the lesson, the gift, carries on.

Sow Wide

Hot pink hope blooms outside my window.

I eye the tender zinnia.  She is not the tallest nor the healthiest I have ever seen yet, against all odds, there she stands among the weeds.  I marvel at her tenacity.

After many failed attempts to keep the dogs out of the garden, the fenced-off patch of carefully weeded and lovingly planted soil remains barren, cratered with the dogs’ late night escapades.

The children and I had spent long hours preparing the garden, trying to create the perfect environment for a fruitful harvest.  But despite every effort to fortify and protect our precious place of seedling safety, night after night our dogs would wreck havoc within the boarders of our sacred space.

Nathan would try to redirect me.  “Maybe you’re not supposed to have a garden this season.  Why don’t you focus on what God has put in front of you right now?”

Of course he was right.  I had my priorities to tend to: homeschooling our children, trying to make time to write, building relationships with the women God had put in my life...I probably did not have time to tend to a garden as well.

But I simply could not get the garden-injustice out of my mind; all this effort to bring forth beauty only to have it stolen away.  One morning, in an act of desperation, or determination, or both, I made my way to the garage.  I was a woman on a mission.

“What are you looking for, Mommy,” Caleb asked inquisitively.  The garage was not my domain, as he well knew.  

“A plastic shopping bag.”

Not just any bag.  A bag full of dried zinnia heads, full of seeds that should have been planted springs ago if not for those meddling dogs.  A bag full of promise that something might bloom the radiance of life in this broken yard.  A bag full of hibernating hope, waiting to be released to its full potential.

I handed Caleb and Adara a dried flower and kept one for myself.  I explained how each  seemingly dead flower held dozens and dozens of seeds and that each seed, if it took root, would become a flower of its own.  I carefully pulled the seeds out of my own dried blossom and watched as the children followed my lead.

“But Mommy,” Caleb asked, “what about the dogs?  Won’t they dig up where we plant the seeds?”

“Yes, they probably will.  That is why we are going to plant a lot of seeds, all over the whole yard, and we will wait and hope that maybe, just maybe, one of those seeds will grow into a bright and beautiful flower.”

And with that, we began.  We must have sown hundreds of seeds!  We laughed and danced and skipped as we scattered our tiny treasures.  In grassy areas; in a corner with hard ground; among the rocks; among the weeds; even in the hole-riddled garden; the children and I sowed everywhere!  

Rains came and went and, after careful inspection of our planting locations, only about 15 sprouts emerged, none in our “garden” plot.  But we were so excited to see the little, two-leafed greens peeking their heads out of unlikely earth we could only rejoice in the expectation of the flowers to come.  Daily we monitored the progress, fully invested in these precious few which had taken root.  

Somewhere in the process I had a revelation about sowing the priceless seeds of the Gospel of Christ.  I had spent so much of my life trying to get all the steps right, trying to create a perfect environment in which to share the love of Jesus with those who were unfamiliar with His saving grace and abundant life.  I wanted a safe, sheltered environment, one which I controlled, to dispense the seeds of greatest hope.  And in effort to protect myself in the process of evangelism, I clutched tightly to my seeds.  Most times I only showed my seeds to other Believers.  And after admiring them I would tuck them safely away for the "right time and place."

And nothing grew.

But what if, with holy abandon, I sowed freely?

What if I took this limitless supply of Grace Seeds and cast them out into all places, unlikely places, sowing wide these Seeds of Life?

What would it really cost me?

What would it cost if I continued to hold back?

Oh God, forgive me for being so tight-fisted with Your gift of Grace.  Forgive me for living under fear of how people might react.  Jesus, thank You for your bold and lavish gift to me.  Holy Spirit, help me to sow wide and sow freely that Gift which was so extravagantly given to me.  

Even now I am moved by this beautiful conviction as I count the other six hopefuls near our hope-blossom.  In my rigid and controlled efforts there was nothing.  But in an act of extravagant sowing, there are seven.  Seven!  The children and I can hardly contain our excitement.  Even Nathan cannot resist a smile as our contagious joy over a single flower touches him.

I am humbled as I look upon these seven promises, the second blossom slowly unfolding her tangerine petals for us.  I did nothing to make her, to make any of them grow.  I was simply willing to be lavish with the gift with which I was entrusted.  

God brought forth the growth.

It is always He who brings forth growth.

So long as those with the Seeds are willing planters.

And so I will keep on sowing.

Generously. 

Getting Ready

Day 8. Day 9. Day 10. Days and nights begin to merge into one another as my husband pursues the purchase of a new vehicle for our family. In another country. What began in our minds as a turn-around trip has now become a longer-than-anticipated adventure.

What is going on Lord, I ask, trying to make sense out of the delay. He is sweetly silent. But it is deeply impressed in my spirit, this notion that He is tenderly teaching me about His sovereignty. So I embrace the wait. And the lessons learned in the waiting.

At first the separation was accepted, even welcomed. Just a few days. And anyway a break does everyone good. Gives fresh perspective. Develops appreciation. Makes the heart grow fonder. However, as our plans overturned and days began to stretch sorely into weeks, something began to happen in the communication between Nathan and myself. Our practical, ho-hum text messages have turned into sappy sentimentals. Our phone calls have become gooshy messes of words of longing and heartfelt yearning to be with one another. One would think as two grown adults who have shared nearly 11 years of marriage that we could handle a little separation with a bit more composure. Instead, this incomprehensible pining has emerged in the two of us, and I find myself beginning to deeply mourn the absence of my husband and dearest friend.

So what do I find myself doing in the meantime? Home-schooling. Rearranging the house. Nurturing children. Going to Bible study. Changing a flat tire. Keeping mice out of the kitchen. Praying with friends. Keeping appointments. Playing secretary. I live out these dual roles of mother and father, husband and wife. Keeping things moving. Because with two small children, life simply does not stop. Some things end up falling away just for the sake of accomplishing the necessary. And let’s face it, who will notice if I don’t shave my legs? I just throw on some jeans and I am on my way.

Now I stand, warm Wednesday afternoon sun streaming through the kitchen window while I wash dishes. The children push the neighbor’s puppies in baby doll strollers around the house. I ponder this waiting, this wearing of so many hats, this separation from the one I love. It is the uncertainty of the timing of his coming, this open-ended return that throws me. If I only I could know when Nathan would be home, I could prepare accordingly. I could set my sights on that date and get everything ready for his arrival in due time. At least, that is what I tell myself. But I don’t know when he will be here. So I wait and do nothing.

Some water splashes on my pajamas and I look down to review the damage. I am stricken by my predicament: It is mid-afternoon and I am still in my PJ’s. Glad Nathan’s not coming home right now, I think. Wouldn’t want him finding me like this!

Of course Nathan’s eyes would be for me alone, despite finding me still in night clothes, straggled hair pulled back, legs unshaved. That is one of the deep joys of love. He would be so glad to be reunited with his wife and children after such a delay that he would just revel in us being together. The rest would not matter.

I realize that I don’t actually want to be found all disheveled and simply “surviving” when my Love returns. I want to look my best, being found beautiful in his eyes, as if I had been preparing and waiting every single day in anticipation of his return.

Because my beloved husband is coming. Soon. He will come on his white steed and sweep me in his arms and I want to be ready; smelling, feeling, looking ready to be embraced by the one my heart has longed for. With a roast in the crock-pot.

I am suddenly struck by the parallel of the coming of Christ. Who knows the day or hour He will return? And rather than making excuses that I can’t prepare well since I don’t know when He is to come and finding myself unprepared, I want to be a make myself ready. I want to love well and obey His commands and make disciples and live fully that today could be the day when my Beloved, Christ Jesus, returns for His bride!

Because the Bridegroom is coming. Soon. He will come on His white steed for a bride He has been simply longing for. And I want to be ready.

My heart is awakened. Oh sweet Jesus, I want to be ready for Your return! Help me, Holy Spirit to make myself a bride prepared for the coming of her radiant Bridegroom. Help me to be vigilant in my wait, to have prepared wisely and well for that hour that is unbeknownst to me. Bring revelation on how to make this practical and real in my life, not just lofty thoughts that amount to nothing. And as I wait for You, Lord Jesus, teach me how to wait well for the husband of my youth, preparing also for his return.

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.