Off the Rollercoaster

I can hear SciFi in his crib. Playing and not sleeping. I could really use the solitude. I am trying to read a book my friend and I are working through together: Becoming the Woman God Wants Me to Be. It is written by Donna Partow and designed help me become closer to the Proverbs 31 woman. In 90 days.

But the toddler in the other room is singing. And climbing out of his crib. And pooping his diaper (which he should no longer be wearing). Please, please, please baby. Just do the routine.... Stick that pacifier (which he should no longer be sucking) into your face and shut. it. Muh. Mommy loves you.

I do prefer the squawks from the other room to the help he gave me in the kitchen earlier. I was cleaning the kitchen and making lunch. Why? Why did I clean before I made lunch? I still don't know. I like to make it as complicated as I can, I guess. Anyway. He found a bottle of my Melaleucal "MelaMagic" cleaner and on the bottle was the image of a mop. SciFi pointed and repeated, "mop! mop! mop!" until I "ummmhummmed".

I should know by now when he pivots like a ballerina followed by a full sprint, that he is on a mission. And this particular 2-year-old's mission was to fetch our mop. To show mom that she knows that he knows we have a mop just like the one he sees on the bottle. So when he came in with it, I glanced in his general direction and "ummmhummmed" some more. I didn't understand that the mission wouldn't be complete without the scrubbing bubbles. In the time it took to drain my broccoli, he had climbed up on the counter, and dumped the cleaner onto the floor beneath.

When our eyes met, he knew I would intercept, so he did the hustle. In two steps I could spoil all of his fun so he got down and mopped like the energizer bunny.

Instead of being concerned about toxins, or the fact he'd been standing on the counter, I was overwhelmed by darkness.

All I could think of is how badly I want to get off this ride. God... a beach in Mexico is calling my name. LOUDLY.... God, I feel so guilty for wanting to run away. Can't I even make lunch? Can't I even hold myself together until noon? Am I too selfish? What is the matter with me?

In these moments, everything shuts down. And the child next to me who is simply being a child, triggers my despair. And it has nothing to do with the mop. Or the mess he made.

Its the cry from a woman can't seem to find the energy to clean up her own personal messes.

Sitting Indian Style

I believe prayer & meditation are remedies for depression. But truthfully, God and I aren't right. My prayers are mostly just little thoughts that I aim in the general direction of "up".  You could call it begging.

When the crisis began, I saw myself as the woman who received healing just by touching the hem of Jesus' robe. I was touching and God was blessing. I watched Him work many many miracles in my life. He provided the money for my Husband's treatment when we didn't know how we were going to pay for it. We simply believed the money would come. And in just days before his departure, it did. It was nothing short of a miracle and just thinking about it is encouraging. I walked in total faith and God blessed me mercifully. Just as promised.

Back to the woman. I imagined her wispy and slight. Faithful and Graceful. Practically dancing up to Jesus with plump fingers barely caressing the edges of Jesus' beautiful robe. Time stops and she is wonderfully healed.

But that is now how I would describe my own hem-grazing experiences.

First of all, I show up late. Because I was crawling on the cobblestone streets with four children in tow (one on my back even) my knees are a bloody mess and so are my knuckles. I see Jesus in a group and feel left out. Instead of going forward, my crawling ceases and I take a moment to judge myself. I lose hope. I lose my resolve. I cry and I wonder if I'll ever be privileged enough to stand next to him like his disciples do. I turn around and blame my children for getting in the way and for needing me to carry them. I tell them how heavy they are and what a burden it can be to carry them along when I can barely move forward. I embrace guilt. And then I somehow get a grip. And my finger reaches out and my hands stretch open with force. I don't just touch the robe. I pull it to me and bury my face in the linen and by the time I'm done, I've stained it with my tears, my blood, my pain, and maybe even my snot.

And in this healing moment, I am shameless. I'm changed. My soul quiets. My heart glows in my chest. Tears are traded for peaceful sighs. I find myself recklessly in love with Jesus. Content.

My God, this has been such a torturous journey. I've sometimes felt as if I'm dragging on the backside of Jesus' hem... more like a string of cans getting yanked behind a car than a follower of Jesus. Please be patient with me. I feel stuck in this ugly place of paralysis. I'm sitting in the street with my grief. Wallowing in it. My faith is weak. I know you are here and I know you love me.

Right now, all I have is this: that I am somehow still here. Sitting but not running away.