i remember you
I bend down to pick up a stray hair from the floor, then see gobs of pink sparkle toothpaste clinging to the side of the baseboard. I quickly sweep the washcloth across the baseboard, also picking up small clumps of dust and hair. Who sees these things? A buyer might, then concede that what, the house is unkempt? From a few clumbs of dust, a glob of pink toothpaste?
Still, my insides tighten, feeling the weight of countless known and unknown messes waiting to be cleaned up. Standing up, I scan the room for anything that needs wiping in the last few minutes before I leave the house.
Lights are on, shades open.
The house is perfect.
Or is it?
Baby screams in the seat, having been sitting waiting for over thirty minutes while clean-up was in full swing. Brother and sister shriek at one another in the back, hands grabbing for the desired game. Toddler refuses to buckle her seatbelt without my help.
I am done.
How can I continue doing this, every day? The expectation that with one call, I will have my home cleaned and looking as if no one had slept in the bed that night, no child spilled red juice all over the table that morning or placed sticky peanut butter hands on the dining room mirror while making silly faces? I shout at my children to help, angrily thinking how typical it was that I am here doing this by myself. I usher self-pity and desperation into my thoughts.
Once in the car, I sit quietly at the wheel for the first time that day, turn on the car and start to drive. In the quiet, I hear Him say, "Remember me..." and in a moment, all that seemed real and so urgently important fades away. I am ashamed, revealed. My heart and thoughts so fixed on strands of hair, globs of toothpaste and my own lack that I fail to hear Him whisper, "I am with you always..."
Which is what I remind the kids every time they feel the sharp edge of the night's darkness and are afraid of being alone, of being left alone. And He is not just with me, but actively at work in me. His hand of blessing, laid gently on my head, not because of what I do or don't do, but because I am his Beloved Child, created in His image.
Yet Jerusalem[c] says, “The Lord has deserted us;
the Lord has forgotten us.”
I forget His words, my spiritual amnesia daily inflicting my heart. Yet He never forgets, which is something I need grace to wrap my arms around...
15 “Never! Can a mother forget her nursing child?
Can she feel no love for the child she has borne?
But even if that were possible,
I would not forget you!
16 See, I have written your name on the palms of my hands.
My name, written on Christ's palms, a loving reminder of His sacrifice for me, His commitment to loving me.
The reminder of His constant commitment to me leads me to the only place I can go to receive His grace: the place of thanksgiving. Where I offer up a sacrifice of praise and thanksgiving and so acknowledge Him and His power at work in me.
Outside of this, I would be a practical agnostic, living day to day wondering where He was, what He was doing, if anything.
Then Isaiah, even Isaiah, wonders if his work was in vain:
I replied, “But my work seems so useless!
I have spent my strength for nothing and to no purpose.
Yet I leave it all in the Lord’s hand;
I will trust God for my reward.”
And I repent of my short-sightedness, my anger, my lack of trust.
Then I thank Him for...
globs of pink toothpaste
a house appointment this weekend
a week in orlando
quiet hour to write
lego constructions on the table
hanna lifting her tummy off the floor on all fours
pancakes for breakfast
daily mercies
bringing the right buyer at the right time
His perfect timing...
Still, my insides tighten, feeling the weight of countless known and unknown messes waiting to be cleaned up. Standing up, I scan the room for anything that needs wiping in the last few minutes before I leave the house.
Lights are on, shades open.
The house is perfect.
Or is it?
Baby screams in the seat, having been sitting waiting for over thirty minutes while clean-up was in full swing. Brother and sister shriek at one another in the back, hands grabbing for the desired game. Toddler refuses to buckle her seatbelt without my help.
I am done.
How can I continue doing this, every day? The expectation that with one call, I will have my home cleaned and looking as if no one had slept in the bed that night, no child spilled red juice all over the table that morning or placed sticky peanut butter hands on the dining room mirror while making silly faces? I shout at my children to help, angrily thinking how typical it was that I am here doing this by myself. I usher self-pity and desperation into my thoughts.
Once in the car, I sit quietly at the wheel for the first time that day, turn on the car and start to drive. In the quiet, I hear Him say, "Remember me..." and in a moment, all that seemed real and so urgently important fades away. I am ashamed, revealed. My heart and thoughts so fixed on strands of hair, globs of toothpaste and my own lack that I fail to hear Him whisper, "I am with you always..."
Which is what I remind the kids every time they feel the sharp edge of the night's darkness and are afraid of being alone, of being left alone. And He is not just with me, but actively at work in me. His hand of blessing, laid gently on my head, not because of what I do or don't do, but because I am his Beloved Child, created in His image.
Yet Jerusalem[c] says, “The Lord has deserted us;
the Lord has forgotten us.”
I forget His words, my spiritual amnesia daily inflicting my heart. Yet He never forgets, which is something I need grace to wrap my arms around...
15 “Never! Can a mother forget her nursing child?
Can she feel no love for the child she has borne?
But even if that were possible,
I would not forget you!
16 See, I have written your name on the palms of my hands.
My name, written on Christ's palms, a loving reminder of His sacrifice for me, His commitment to loving me.
The reminder of His constant commitment to me leads me to the only place I can go to receive His grace: the place of thanksgiving. Where I offer up a sacrifice of praise and thanksgiving and so acknowledge Him and His power at work in me.
Outside of this, I would be a practical agnostic, living day to day wondering where He was, what He was doing, if anything.
Then Isaiah, even Isaiah, wonders if his work was in vain:
I replied, “But my work seems so useless!
I have spent my strength for nothing and to no purpose.
Yet I leave it all in the Lord’s hand;
I will trust God for my reward.”
And I repent of my short-sightedness, my anger, my lack of trust.
Then I thank Him for...
globs of pink toothpaste
a house appointment this weekend
a week in orlando
quiet hour to write
lego constructions on the table
hanna lifting her tummy off the floor on all fours
pancakes for breakfast
daily mercies
bringing the right buyer at the right time
His perfect timing...
Comments
Post a Comment