I’m overcome with temptation, so I eat the bowl of ice-cream that hurts my tummy and causes Titus eczema all over. I wrestle and limp in my spirit to the pot of beans, then the friend comes over. I say I know it hurts, and I apologize that I couldn’t have told her in advance how hard marriage is.
I light a beautiful candle, smells like cookies, and I imagine what it’s like to be Catholic. I say a prayer and ask the Holy Spirit to keep speaking it as the flame bounces with our passing by.
My boys suddenly go silent, stand below the window and figure ways to blow it out and stick their fingers in the wax.
The Rock House is wonderful, and when it’s clean (15 minutes tops) I walk through and enjoy it, look around and call it home. But the charm is in the mess now. Move me anywhere. The mess, the noise, it comes along no matter.
I literally hurdle through, over little boy forts, preciously stacked pillows and walls of blocks. I go through my clothes, piece by piece. I pile it all: no. no. no. I don’t wear much of this. My Seth told me we had an event but failed to mention the black tie part. All I know is that I’m wearing my tattoo, and not many evening gowns cover it.
I’ve come to love this awkward stage, the craisins in the carpet, the black tears rolling down my face when we sing doxology, how my voice gets worse as I get older, and how I sing louder. Every single day is a sort of shirking.
I wonder how to go deeper, how to not spread so thinly. Can I be faithful in the small?
Can I see the tapestry? That we are threads woven together? That we are parts of a body? Me here and you there across the world even. Don’t let me forget that this tiny spot I’m in is cosmic. It is atom-to-atom tied into a Story that blankets all circumstance like pink across the sky.