Faith Real Life

Lunchtime letters, toddlering, and a piece of chocolate cake

October 24, 2017

I feel like a toddler invaded your body this passed week. Between being 27 weeks pregnant with a bowling ball, your strep throat and teething those canines, and what I’m pretty sure is an 18-month sleep regression – I’m left feeling rather empty-tanked. Is that a word?

You run from me when it’s time to go or get dressed – like it’s a game. You hit inanimate objects in frustration, as I watch from a distance, trying not to laugh. Yet you want more snuggles and holding than ever. I’ll take that. Then you go and hit me in the face the last couple of days and when I take you to your corner, yes your corner, and I say sternly say to your blue-eyes, “NO HITTING MOMMY!” you immediately smile, turn sweet and say “yeah” as though you know the corner protocol already. Then with a sweet “Mamma” and a lean in for a kiss you have me all hmpfh. There you go again – having me melting and laughing (inside of course). I think we’re in for a ride dear daughter.

With you waking up earlier, and sometimes in the night again, I haven’t the energy to set my alarm for 5:30am just to sit with the Lord and a cup of coffee. How will I have the energy for this if my routine is out of sorts? And then the Lord gently speaks to my heart, Can’t I meet with you DURING your day? As though I could only fit Him into predictability. And I find myself hearing the verse from a podcast sermon in Colossians 3:4 “When Christ, Who is your life…” and I’m reminded that He doesn’t just get first priority. Jesus doesn’t just rank #1 – as though my morning routine was a way of echoing that position. He is my everything. Constantly.

Because when you’re somewhere you’ve never been before, you kinda need something else to be your everything. And darling, you’ve never been here before either. Toddler-ing is hard work. And I love all of you, forever and ever. Grace for us both?

So now, at the beginning of your nap, as I sit down to let my fingers do the talking and spew out the internal dialogue within me, therapy happens. My kind of therapy. Even just for 20 minutes. The kind where words and Jesus and fresh coffee meet. The kind where I take just a few minutes to let His presence heal, restore, refresh. Remind me that it’s okay to not know what I’m doing, always. And a piece of chocolate cake never huts.

Lunchtime letters, until we meet again, I’ll be letting Him BE my life, not just a part of it.

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