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.