Mercy

I found this the other day on Pinterest. I quickly read it, and then pinned it to my board.
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Yesterday was a bad day. A very bad day. I saw the day heading in a downward spiral of anger, resentment, frustration and strife. I saw it going there and I could have stopped it, but I didn't. It was like stepping outside of myself and watching the events unfold like a movie. A movie about a destructive tornado that tears thorough some unsuspecting little town leaving its residents lives completely turned upside down.

"Where did that come from?" they quizzically ask each other.

"I don't know, but I am so afraid that it is going to happen again. I hope it doesn't."

Sometimes the worst part of being an adult is that although you are supposed to know better and do better, you still act like a child. Last night after all was calm and I apologized to my boys for acting the perfect part of the lunatic, I was still feeling unsettled. I woke up in the middle of the night and got up out of my warm bed. I went into their rooms and put my hands on their sleeping heads and asked for mercy for their memories. I prayed that they would not remember the bad days. That the good days would all pile up until the deep places in their minds were so filled with good memories that there was no room for the bad ones. I wish that I could take a magic eraser and wipe all traces of the unhappiness that I have caused completely from the minds. But I can't. The only thing that I can do today is do better than yesterday.

Today I will do what matters.

The Secret Ingredient

This is why yesterday ran smoothly.

Why yesterday was infinitely better than the day before.

Why today holds promises of good things.


May your day be blessed!

Parental Love

Last night I nursed my 6 year old through a migraine. He began to complain at dinner that his head was hurting. I realized then that he had not eaten a lot during the day because we were busy, and he does not complain about being hungry. I told him to finish his dinner he would probably feel better.

He stopped complaining, but he was not right. He asked me to take him up to his bed and once again told me that his head hurt. I helped him brush his teeth and together we performed all of the bedtime rituals. I put him in bed and rubbed his back for about 10 minutes. We said prayers and I went to throw some laundry into the washing machine.

I had just sat down to watch Project Runway when I heard him crying in his room. I went upstairs and found him trembling, crying and writhing on his bed. I knew then that it was a migraine. Having had a few myself, I know all too well the excruciating pain that they produce. I gave him some Motrin. It did nothing. He was shaking so badly I thought that he was going to have a seizure. He was weeping and moaning, and my heart was literally breaking.

Seeing your child in such pain is the part of motherhood that no one prepares you for.

I began to pray and intercede on his behalf. I was begging God to take away his pain, to show His power and heal my boy. At that moment I would have gladly taken his pain as my own just to afford him some relief.

A few moments later he burped, and then he passed gas. My sweet little angel, in all of his pain, said "excuse me." Tears burned my eyes as I held him even tighter.

"My tummy feels sick." he said. I knew that he was going to vomit and I was actually glad as it usually signals the migraine is winding down. Once he vomited he began to feel better, and within 10 minutes he was asleep. His body was simply spent. I sat there with him, stroking his head for a long while after he was asleep.

I gazed down at his little face and his little boy body, and it was like I was looking down at my heart. What a complex affair it is, parenthood. This child walks around, completely separate from me, yet still very much a part of me. When he hurts, I hurt. When he is in pain, I am in pain.

In those moments the levels deepen and I am reminded of how it is for God. I am His child in pain. There I am writhing, moaning and weeping- sick from myself. And there He is waiting for me to get to the end of myself so that He can perform the healing. The process is painful, so painful. But afterward comes the rest.

I am still in process. I know that I will never arrive, at least not here on this earth, but I am learning to let go. I am learning that it takes more faith to allow the healing than it does to stay where I am, in pain and sorrow. I am learning again to intercede on my own behalf and to let God father me, to be vulnerable.

Being a grown-up is when you come to the realization that it is easier to just stop fighting.

Moving Mountains

Saviour, He can move the mountains,
My God is Mighty to save,
He is Mighty to save.

Forever, Author of salvation,
He rose and conquered the grave,
Jesus conquered the grave.


That is the chorus to one of the worship songs that we sang in church yesterday. I got as far as "Saviour, He can move the mountains" when I felt a lump in my throat and my eyes began to sting with tears. The past two years have been one trial after another. My life has been in a constant state of upheaval with nary a break in the stress. I am not whining and I am not complaining, just stating a fact. There are things that God has allowed to happen that, if I am being honest, I resent. That is the hard, plain truth, sorry if it offends.

"He can move the mountains."

But.

What if He doesn't?

At least not in the way that you expect Him to. What if you wanted the mountain completely removed and instead you were asked to go over the mountain, and it seemed to grow steeper and rockier with each laborious step forward? What if with each step you felt your faith not growing, but slipping through your fingers like sand. Was there ever faith there to begin with if it could wane so easily?

I thought about all of those things yesterday, and I came to realize that instead of letting God be God, I was attempting to fit Him into the box that I created. It was a box of safety, and familiarity. A box with no surprises and no heartache. A box where I was in charge of what went in and what came out. Faith cannot grow in such a box.

This Easter was about me learning to let go. Realizing that it took Jesus three days to rise from the dead. It has taken me time to rise from the ashes of disappointment, sorrow, and even anger. All of this has taken me longer than three days. But what I came to realize is that there is faith in the realization, and I have taken the first step.

I once read a quote that goes like this, "When a we take one step toward God, He runs toward us."

As a runner that quote speaks to me. Runners prepare to run, it takes effort. Anyone at anytime can get up and walk, but running takes preparation. I make that first step back to a relationship with God, and there He is, at the starting line, already prepared to run to me when I am ready to walk to Him.

I just had to get up.