Thanks Breathes Life

Jun 17, 2012 | The Good Word, The Parenthood

The bathtub is full and I am alone. Words full of grace and hope rest gently between my hands, the cover stretched from holding my place — continuing this life-giving whisper I’m struggling to receive. And it’s very likely I might never get it right in this lifetime.

The day has been full and long and the evening, lonely. HH gone since eight this morning, me forgetting to truly look my Mom in the eyes to say thank-you for so much help through the day, juggling boys full of life, energy, promise, me feeling a little dead on the inside.

If this week wanted to whisper anything, it wanted to whisper this: Give Thanks.

{Would you believe Tiger Tank wore this exact outfit today? And then I remembered this picture of the Bear from this post? The Tiger is nearly the exact same age. Wow.}

A friend called to ask for a moment to unload. Difficult circumstances at her husband’s work. Some bad news about an old friend made the evening news. Heavy. I talked, too, about letting my stresses get the better of me, this worried heart of mine forgetting to breathe the free air of trusting God. By the end of the conversation we’d encouraged one another, lifted prayers to the Father, laughed and remembered: Hope, there is always hope.

I want to take a risk and just trust.

Another friend called, a brave whisper at the other end of the line on the way home from the doctors: It looks like we lost this one, too. I weep. She weeps. She somehow speaks thankfulness, and commenting on how crazy it seems, speaks certainty in the goodness of God. Right there on the phone on the way home from the news that was read on an ultrasound screen.

I don’t understand all this. I go back to hiding. Forcing smiles with clenched teeth, me, feeling the quickening of new life just getting started — me, undeserving of this gift, 18 weeks along and sometimes thankful, sometimes fearful.

How will I make it? How will I do this?

And a faint whisper I’m afraid to ask in the back of my mind: why not her, now?

If my heart is a desert, worry is a well-worn path through the sand. Fear and worry, the enemies of peace and joy.

Laying in that bath, I worried. These are moments I’ll look back on and see differently, aren’t they? The blessing of these long summer days, little boys who haven’t even started school — I might call the end of a year of preschool a curse, me feeling heavy laden with a long to-do list and the concern of how to juggle, but rightly seen, this too is a blessing.

I worry that I’ll be sad when this changes. I’ve already thought about waving goodbye to this third child who hasn’t even been born yet. Watching these children grow up, leave home, fulfill dreams — how will this old soul cope?

But aren’t His mercies new every morning?

Does His compassion ever fail?

And isn’t that what this book has been saying — what I heard in my own heart a long time ago, and what Ann has been whispering all along?

Start counting the gifts. Start counting the blessings. See.

See because of what has gone before, how you can trust for what is to come: somehow God has always been good. And if a precious friend of mine can brave those words on the way home from the doctors, can’t I shout them from the mountaintop?

What kind of sinner am I, not to see the gifts, remember them, hold them steady in my heart, count and count and say thanks and say thanks?

There are things about now that I don’t like — but this is my schizophrenia, the simultaneous disdain for, and worry that I am not savoring the moments that I ought to be savoring. I am trying to hold them tight and wish them away at the same time.

But here is something true: whether we feel we are dwelling on mountain tops or trudging valleys low, we can be certain that we haven’t gotten to the best part of the story yet.

And God’s blessings never end because His love never ends.

Profound, simple truth leaps off the page at me.

As I begin to let the water drain, I remember lying in a bathtub in Gordon’s Bay, nearly sixteen months ago. Simultaneously wishing away the temporary pains of recovering from nine pounds delivered in nine minutes, and wishing we could somehow set the clock to still for a little while, the precious moments of life’s beginning going too fast. Feeling the ache that a singer etched out in notes while I pushed a cart through the grocery store this morning:

Cause you can’t jump the track, we’re like cars on a cable,
Life’s like an hour glass glued to the table…
No one can find the rewind button now,
Sing it if you understand.
And breathe. Just breathe.

And I let that water drain, hoping my heart can settle to sleep, remembering the words of the God-whisper as I let out the water sixteen months ago: The Good Water is the Water that Flows.

I’m sure of it, that I won’t have all the answers until we see Him face to face, but this certainty fills my heart, reminds me to breathe in the meantime: Thankfulness prepares the way for God.

Thankfulness will carry me through these long days, these worrisome moments — when I rightly see that this, too, is the good water flowing by — all of it will flow until He is here and we see as we are seen, know as we are known.

I am sorry for letting stress steal the joy. I am painfully aware I’m contradicting His command:

Do not let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God, trust also in Me. {John 14:1} 

Strange how trust can feel so dangerous. On the playground this morning with the boys, my Mom told me a man walked a tightrope across the Niagara falls last night, continuously praying, putting one foot in front of the other.

I hold on to worry and stress, with the illusion of control, trust feels so risky. But isn’t He trustworthy?

Back to Grace — the account I can never over-withdraw, even though I’m so greatly indebted. His mercies are new every morning — and tomorrow is a fresh chance to give thanks, look to heaven, count blessings, and prepare the way.

Manna-mercy is already falling as I think that out — hope whispers to my soul. Breathe. Trust. Keep seeking and you will find, with hope and thanks, life in abundance.

xCC

He Was Thirsty

Jun 10, 2012 | The Good Word, The Parenthood

It’s after nine on a Saturday night. The Hubs is out second shooting at a wedding. The house is quiet and still. I stare at the walls, the screen, knowing I need to stop working. My soul needs to be still. I keep going, tidy rooms one by one, find myself rearranging things in our bedroom. I’m avoiding getting quiet in my soul, though I know that’s where I need to be, and I hear the softest cry from down the hall:

I’m thirsty…

I’m thirsty…

I tiptoe to the door, sleeping baby curled neatly in his crib, and whisper past him toward the boy on the other side of the room, a gentle:

Come.

He is quick to throw off the sheets, tip toe out of the room, us together, quietly down the hall.

Is Daddy back yet?

No, my darling, he is still going to be gone until later.

It’s bright in here.

He squints.

I watch him eagerly drink and drink — it was no ploy to sneak from bed, he was a thirsty little soul.

He hands the juice cup back to me, well quenched.

I love you, Mama.

I love you, my boy.

I’ll see you in the morning.

Okay, my boy, I’ll walk you back to bed.

My heart feels soft and sore — these are the sweet and gentle moments that cause me to take off my shoes. Hard as parenthood may be, these are the whispers that make it worth it.

I reflect afterwards and realize, I have regularly been frustrated with this child. Perhaps scolding more than savouring. I remember this moment, well over a year ago — it was just him and me. The Hubs captured him after a nap, gently resting on my shoulder, comfortably sinking into me, pregnant and full of expectation. Seems it was easier to savour moments then.

And life right now seems more out of control. A deadline looms. A dishwasher stops, seems broken, I research dishwashers for an afternoon, sighing to think about spending money for a new one, we discover the breaker had tripped and the dishwasher is fine. My to-do list is growing instead of shrinking. I put off my first prenatal appointment because it is a reminder that I’m not in control. I’m not in control of who this new child will be — boy or girl, a small baby or a big one, easy or tough, an early arrival or a late one (though I trust for perfect timing.)

A few mornings before, I learned a prayer of mine and of many wasn’t answered the way we wanted. A family said goodbye to their Dad, husband, the night before his daughter’s birthday, the day of her high school graduation. He went the night before.

My Dad calls with the news and we both cry. I hang up the phone and long for control. I try to remember how marvelous the mysteries of God are, but they seem like bitter water.

Like the Israelities who wandered in the desert, thirsty and wandering. Out of control. They found waters, called them Marah. They were bitter waters. The Israelites complained. Moses prayed. The Lord showed him a tree, he cut it down and cast it into the waters, and then the waters were sweet. {Ex. 15}

Spurgeon said:

For suppose Marah had been sweet, then, Moses had not prayed to God, and then the tree had not been cut down, and they had never known the power of God to sweeten bitter waters. It must be an awful thing to live an unafflicted life on earth. You say it must be a very delightful thing. I have no doubt it may be from some aspects; but a person who has had no sickness, how can he have a sympathetic heart? What service can he render in cheering the people of God? If you never had any trials, I should suppose, unless something very extraordinary happened, that you would become harsh, and untender; I am afraid some would grow brutal, coarse, hard of heart. Who wishes, where others have to suffer, to claim an immunity from a blessing which brings rich consolations with it, and works eternal benefits? Beloved, this is ever one thing that sweetens Marah that it afterwards bringeth forth the comfortable fruits of righteousness. Our trials are not sent to us alone and by themselves; there is a quantum suff. grace sent with them, by which they are made available as means to sanctify us, and make us meet to be partakers of the inheritance of the saints in light.

This is a part of the mystery revealed: God turns bitter to sweet. There is so, so much blessing in the process.

The Tree the Saviour hung on: the Cross, it is the tree that turns all the waters of life from bitter to sweet. The hope that this isn’t all there is, the best it yet to come. All who are thirsty, come.

But me — here, feeling out of control, I have not been thirsty. I have not wanted to drink. I have not wanted to taste and see God’s goodness. I might continue finding time here and there to read His Word — but I play it safe, and I don’t pray a prayer that will give Him a chance to answer. Would He tell me to relax? Would He tell me to be still? Would He tell me to trust?

I think so.

All of that would remind me that I am not in control.

Seems safer not to pray.

I hang up the phone with my Dad — that news fresh in my ears, my soul spins. I see a bug in the bathroom, and I spray it with whatever I can find on hand. Air freshener. Hair spray. Body splash. I don’t want to leave the room to find something to end this bug’s life — it might get away while I’m gone. I would not be in control.

HH comes to see how close I am to ready, it’s his turn to shower. I am crying and there is a bug in the bathtub, but it is not dead. I am not in control. Not even of this.

I think back to all this after giving a thirsty child a drink. I realize my frustration with this boy has more to do with me than I want to admit.

Sometimes I hide when I don’t like how things are going. Sometimes I curl up to avoid the reality that I’m not in control.

I hide from God and ignore how thirsty my soul is. I let the cares of this world steal my joy. I let fear about the future make me sad.

Childlike faith — being willing to trust God, to thank Him, to listen for His voice and obey His leading — this is where joy comes from. I am lacking in joy because I am lacking in Him. Not going to the only waters — and sweet, sweet waters they are, that can quench my soul-thirst.

The glorious truth rings true again: but if from there.

I’m reminded that honesty is good. I can be real with God. No matter where I am, if from there I seek Him, I’ll find Him. And there is no sense in me, the diseased, so desperately in need of Him, the Cure, to try to stay away.

Have you ever sat for a long time — hard at work, busy with something — and then suddenly realized you are very, very thirsty? And you go and get yourself a drink, and you marvel a bit at how silly it was, you sitting there not drinking when something to quench your thirst was so nearby. You drink and it is so good. So refreshing.

He has that for our souls. And even the softest cry — like a child who has long been in bed and suddenly realizes he is in need of a drink — will not go unanswered.

When I closed the door, my heart was so warm, after kissing that boy goodnight. He was thirsty. It took me a while longer to realize that I was thirsty, too.

xCC