In cycles of surviving and waiting and hiding, I bought The Divine Hours like one completely unaccustomed to liturgy. This morning, one of my four was laying in the hallway crying, hardly made it out of his room, because he dreads school. As soon as I saw him I knew exactly and thought to myself how motherhood can feel much the same, though it shouldn’t. I scooped him to my lap, just us on the bed, and read the morning prayer, all praise and “glory” again and again, asking for a new song. There’s something about praying scripture out loud over your house and to your house, confessing a Holy Other and our desire to keep to that which He has called us. Even in rebellion and the desire to give up, my little one couldn’t deny peace. And neither could I.

Seth is home and wouldn’t you know it that 24 hours later, I finally got that tummy bug and barfed all night long. It’s a beautiful life. I feel like I’ve hardly taken him in, but before he had to shave his beard this morning for court, I snuzzled it good. It was just so soft. Okay, I’ll stop.

His time with Kidmia in Ethiopia was amazing. I hope you’ll read his posts about it because what they do there is real and different and his eyes have witnessed it twice. The first time he went to Africa was to Mozambique, and that trip actually wrecked us, in a good and terrible way. But after these years, the visits to Ethiopia have bolstered us. Brothers and sisters there send him home in peace. Last time they also sent him home with a parasite, but this time, I’m pretty sure he just came home with a great sense that the global church is actively engaged in telling some good news to the poor. Jesus still goes to the blind, friends. He still comes as a small child leading his mother to market. Don’t give up.

It’s just a regular Monday. The world over are strings and tambourines. Rivers turn solid ground beneath beasts. Flowers bloom and dance. Dew flashes, and snowflakes form uniquely, altogether new, by the millions of billions. We are new creations all the time.  Our faith isn’t yet supposed to be made to be sight.

Cry out, you souls. Cry out your Hosannas until you can see Him with your very real eyes.