As I was chasing my two-year-old around the house tonight, negotiating pajama time with her – because brute force is NOT an option when you have a broken arm – I found myself seeing my day in her actions. The way she was looking over her shoulder and being what I can only call irrational smacked of Sarah.
I am so blessed that God is still there waiting for me. I said “NO!” at least three times today, and I have been forgiven and still blessed, even though I didn’t cooperate at all. I didn’t play nicely, I didn’t use my manners, and I certainly didn’t have any faith that the glass would be fuller ever again.
He sent me numerous angels along the way of my “bad” day, in the form of friends who offered to hug me and hold me and be Jesus to me. Why did I refuse their kindnesses? What made me prefer my cold house to their warm hospitality? When will I be “cured” of this streak of martyr that has run through me since approximately age 12?
And tomorrow morning will find me, in the wee hours, sitting before Him, in silence, surrounded by His arms. I will lay my head in His lap and as His mother strokes my temple, I’ll lay down all my silly little problems. When I walk away, I’ll be new again. My nearly-empty cup will be full, my stuttering battery will be recharged, and my doubting heart will find strength in knowing He cares and He’s there. He will hold me and rock me, just as I held and rocked my two-year-old. He will savor the warm weight of my head on His shoulder, just as I closed my eyes and thanked Him for the gift of my daughter before bedtime.
Whatever it is that keeps me stubbornly yelling “I don’ wanna,” I’m blessed by the comfort of knowing my Father will love me anyway, and He won’t give up on me, no matter how much I try to convince Him He should.