I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much of my own desperate need for Jesus as I have this week. I. am. finished. Weary. Emotionally, paper-thin. And you know what? I’m mad at myself for feeling this way so darn easily.
Yes, the stomach virus hit our house this past week. I’m not sure that it has completely vanished yet as the hubby began feeling its effects late last night. Between the great snow storm (let me rephrase that: The Great *Southern* snow storm) the week before last, and sickness, we have been quarantined in the house for the better part of two weeks now. Everyone is feeling the effects of that too.
Yesterday, I think I cried for three-fourths of the day. That could possibly be due to some, ahem, feminine hormones, maybe? 🙂 But really, things have just piled, one on top of another until I feel like I’m under one big pile of dirty, stinky clothes and I can’t tunnel my way out. Hmmmm . . . maybe this is due to the 50 bazillion loads of laundry I’ve done in the last two days.
See? I am complainey, whiney, and just plain glum.
My parenting skills are what really have me upset with myself. Or should I say, my *lack* of parenting skills…. It is hard to balance the tightrope of grace vs. discipline for a whiney, disobeying, mouthy three-year-old when she’s been sick as a dog.
I simply have nothing left in me to give. Nothing. All that is coming out in my words and attitude is . . .
Leave me alone. Make my life easy. Don’t cross me. Don’t give me one more thing to fight over or pray for or make me smile through my teeth. I am done.
And over what? A few squabbles over who the real Mama in this house is? A few days of sickness? A couple hurt feelings? A few days of snow? A few piles of laundry?
Oh, God, it’s so easy to lose the big picture of life when you’re stuck trying to brush out life’s gritty details. But You see.
I know that You see.
And maybe that’s sometimes all we can do, but maybe it’s the best thing we can do.
Just roll ours heads back to the sky (or the ceiling, in my case) open our tense, tightly-clenched hands and say,
“I can’t do this anymore. I can’t see or feel or think clearly. I am hard-pressed with everyday grit and grime. Take my despair. Let me dance in the mud.”
Counting His graces . . . I need to see His hand tracing in the dirt:
#161 welcoming, wiser women
#162 that the sickness didn’t hit until the little one was in bed and the hubby was home – grace in the timing
#163 ginger ale
#164 he slept on the bare floor by her side . . . all night
#165 teamwork – even when I want to be the one to comfort – grace in the humbling, grace in the letting go, grace in the letting him
#166 the sanitary cycle on a well-working (given to us!) washer
#168 One Thousand Gifts – right when I’d have time to read it
#169 that sickness slows me down
#171 the way food tastes so good when you finally have an appetite again
#172 a patient, self-entertaining baby
#173 being humbled in my brokenness
#174 that I can ask forgiveness
#175 the forgiveness of a daughter
#176 simultaneous little-girl naps and a chance for a heart-to-heart
#178 no need to hide
#179 Ancient Words that hold true in my humble, ordinary, everyday moments
#180 that Love washes over my self-made messes
#181 a little girl actually napping in my arms
#182 that I actually stopped to rest with her
#183 that He can move in my realization of my own insufficiency
#184 that He equips me for whatever He calls me to do or be