ordinary sacred

Kara, the writer behind the Mundane Faithfulness blog, has invited other bloggers to participate in a practice of grace- writing letters every week, each letter with its own focus. I do not know Kara. We live in the same city and some of my friends and family know her, but I have only followed her story in bits and pieces as others have posted her blog posts to their Facebook pages. Kara’s story is heart-rending and powerful and in the midst of her own suffering, she gives people a glimpse of Christ in her, the hope of glory. Today’s assignment is to write a on the graces that surround me daily.

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He stirs and his little movement wakes me. My phone says 3:30 am. I lay my hand on his three-year-old back and help him settle again. Within moments his breathing lengthens and he is again asleep, curled up near me, his hair finding its way into my mouth so I have to move. Little Boy sleeps with us right now. It seems to be a phase, and we have chosen to always show hospitality to this walking miracle, so he stretches between us, secure and safe from anything that might make his imaginative mind wake in fear.

It’s Tuesday morning. The end of April looms and the neighbor’s flowering tree is covered with deep pink blossoms, warning of the heat to come in only a matter of weeks when we will pull out shorts and tank tops and go around in flip-flops.

In the quiet of the early morning, the crack between my bedroom curtains is still dark but with the slight purple touches of a coming sun. I wonder for a moment if I will be awake now for the day or if I will be given the grace for more sleep.

The next time I wake is when Husband is pulling Little Boy out of bed, breakfast on the table and ready to take him to school. They shut the door behind them and let me doze. After several nights of the child’s bad dreams and my own churning mind, this gift is received with happiness.

It’s 8:30 before I open my eyes again.

Despite the extra sleep however, I feel tired. Heavy. The beauty of the cool spring morning paled by the thoughts in my mind. A shower doesn’t help.

It will be a long day, this day. Not because of any demands, but because of the deficit of them. Not because of noise, but because of quiet. Not because of a lack of ability, but because of a lack of opportunity.

I text my hard-working husband about when he will be home and plans for our evening and I stew on the longness of the day. I drive to school and see the sweet hazel eyes of my boy peering up at me, his quickness to listen and respond when I speak of something he needs to do. His arms squeezing around my neck and his giggle hanging in the wind as we run to the car. And my mind continues to steep in the longings of my heart that go unmet day after day after day.

We eat lunch and have plenty, despite grocery day being tomorrow. My son pulls his stool up to the sink, turns on the faucet and plays in the water, curiosity spilling as much as the wet drips. We decorate the living room floor with toys and blocks. We lounge in bed for quiet time. And all the while, my heart thrashes restlessly in my chest.

Daddy comes home and leaves me a few moments of quiet before I drive to my gym. I don’t experience severe pain in my knee tonight and I end up with the best workout time of all the women for the day. I smile and laugh with my coach and friends, momentarily forgetting the thoughts of my day.

I do some quick family shopping on the way home and have no problem adding things to the cart that are not on the list. I eat a full dinner at home, while Husband dresses Little Boy for sleep. I sit on the floor with my son tickling and laughing, his smile so quick and his reach for hugs and kisses growing longer and longer by the week. Still my soul tosses, aching with the longings and hopes and fears of the future… including the fears of a long tomorrow. And Thursday. And Friday. And so many days.

But now, in the dark, a little quiet body beside me finally drifted to sleep (hopefully for all night tonight!), soft music mingled with the scent of cedarwood and lavender, and I have this moment. This thought. This.

That all these things I saw today, all that I held and touched and tasted and experienced, all are signs that point to me to the grace that surrounds me. Even while I am locked in my thoughts and aching for a new thing, there is still newness all around. And I realize I need not be ashamed that I greeted and ended this day with dread, but instead to allow the dread, the boredom, the curious wonderings, to mingle in with the grateful moments, persons, things, gifts of everydayness. Grace to learn to trust that the God who sees my heart and future also sees fit to give me the small beauties of gifts in the Now.

And He then graces me with help to learn to hold both. The fears and the gifts, the future and the present, the wonders and the wonderings, the ache and the hope. Grace to see it all, and to trust that all… all this… is held in tender Hands.

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To read more Tuesday Grace Letters, visit here.