When the relentless rest-less days turn into weeks, and the weeks turn
into months, all the hurry and rush can make a mama see the world
through a lens of gray.
It's a worrisome place to be... feels a bit like days of old, days of depression and gloom.
The need to get out bed is more urgent than ever, but the will lacking.
Air is crisp and the bed is warm. It's a fight to make feet hit cold ground.
In the middle of the dark-inside days doesn't joy seem a flickering memory? A dream dreamed on a long ago night?
Toes touch the floor and seek soft slippers. Little comforts soften the edges.
Shuffling to the kitchen for a hot drink, a bible lies near.
It is closed.
Eyes stay focused on the floor because legos and books and marbles and cheerios make feet grumpy, even feet in soft slippers. The mess in the house feels like the mess in the mind.
In the kitchen the electric tea kettle whooooshes bubbly water, and steam winds to the ceiling. The counter has crumbs.
And this mama wonders... will I ever get there? Will I ever ever ever get it all done? And is any of it worth doing anyway?
A little rustling sound and then a tangle of small arms and warmth from behind.
Crumbs and legos and fog are forgotten as we two wrap all up for the morning snuggle, sitting right there on the kitchen floor.
Love pushes the clouds a bit and says, "Are you hungry?"
Then love gets up off the cold floor and wipes the counter. Love melts the butter and cracks the eggs. Love grinds the coffee for Papa and wakes other children.
And love makes the mama remember... it is in doing love that joy is found.
The day never gets perfect. The race against household entropy is never ending and the people are all still sinners. Every day.
That closed bible calls out and is cracked wide, and as pages are turned and the realest truest words read aloud, brains start to clean and clear.
Hope. Life. And this is the hope that
does not disappoint.
Even for gloomy mamas on dreary days joy glimmers.
joy in doing love for beloveds
joy tucked in Word truth
joy in resting mind quiet on Him
The vanilla smell of a lit candle turns my face and my eyes linger on
the solitary flame. Waving, straight, now fluttering again.
And when still, it always points straight up.
Blessed to join
imperfect prose
for the first time.
