I gather this when I explode for the up-tenth time when I figure that, with all my repenting and trying so hard, Jesus should have just stepped in by now and given me pass. Just make me more graceful, gentle, humble, already! And as a second thought, I add a please.
It is Thatcher's birthday, and this is a "mommy blog" so I want to for sure capture his day on here, but right now I have sentenced him to his room- same as his brothers.
Two boys were sent to time out earlier.
Two boys were crying, for separate reasonings.
There are two marbles missing to the brand new marble game I got Thatcher.
And I lost my cool.
It is all the whining, the complaining, and the prodding. The proverbial stick in one's side. It is also the laziness. Oh My Goodness! What a rotten combination.
And I feel it rumbling inside of me like a faint hunger pain but it is suppressible because I want to behave gingerly and delicately, until it explodes -literally- leaving me with no control over the words or the volume which spew from my mouth.
And my first thought, upon coming down the stairs, leaving the three young boys to their own doings, is to look for a drink. We had a root beer drink with just the tiniest taste of alcohol in it, and I enjoyed that. Maybe Big Strong Man has some around here....
But I actually am not much of a drinker, so this thought both interests and frightens me.
My daddy is an alcoholic.
My mother was.
I stumble around the downstairs, throw in a load of laundry just to keep order because my insides are still hot lava and my heart is a freight train, roaring.
I want B.S.M home so badly, I want to share this beautiful day of celebration, and these tricky moments, too. But he works too much and too hard. It zaps him.
It takes me back to Jesus.
Because I know from my elementary education that Jesus is enough for me and He has got the whole world in His hands, but I feel distant, or He does, and I am not even sure who is pulling away.
I don't think it's Him- I don't think that is in His nature at all. He seeks us, recklessly, right?
So then it is me. I pulled away. But the only thing I can think of is trying to rectify this by reading my Bible and thus forcing Jesus to see me. That's how it works, right?
I do the holy thing, He smiles on me?
But no, that's not right at all.
And I know this.
I just want to zone out.
I want Jesus to take this emotion within me and help me.
Better yet, cure me.
Make me better.
And maybe it was because of Him that I did not go searching for root beer flavored alcohol. But instead I reached for you. The typing is calming, although the flow from within me is great and I cannot seem to get it out quick enough.
We are not supposed to speak these truths, half truths, at the least.
Do I believe Jesus loves me? Yes, I do.
Yet I also believe that He is here and yet I hurt.
He is near and yet I search.
He is love and yet I feel disappointed.
Like, maybe, He isn't enough.
Like, maybe, when I am being really honest, He feels far away more often than He feels near.
Confessing this out loud is only half true, even as I write this, I don't exactly feel it, but I have.
Momentarily, I am in limbo, feeling and not feeling.
I rebuke this, and deny it. I squelch it and I hide it. I lay this down and I carry this around and speaking it out loud gives the enemy a foothold. So I stand a little taller, speak a little louder, believe a little harder, and I wait.
I wait on Jesus.
Their screaming upstairs is the type from laughter. And I am very thankful for words typed here with a can of sparkling water, and not root beer on the chair, in the corner of the dark room. With these thoughts floating around and asking too many questions in my mind.
And I decide that this doesn't need a pretty bow to be complete. Because Thatcher will eat cake, even if no one else gets any, and this will all blow over and be ok.
It is all going to be ok.
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