Ordinary, Sacred Moments
My perfect morning starts at 7am, before the kids wake, with a cup of coffee and reading in my rocking chair by the window.
It's a sacred moment to yawn with the trees and watch the sun make the dew shine, all by myself, knowing God's been up all night watching over all His creation.
Today, I rise much later than planned, and can't seem to wake up. I send a refund for a custom buisness order we can't bring to fruition, and then I fast for an insurance exam, eagerly waiting my cream and sugar and eggs and homemade sourdough bread.
The kiddos won't play and keep digging through the lady's bag while she draws my blood. "You have great blood pressure for these little ones running around!" she chides. I chuckle, because for all I knew, they make me anxious daily with their bitting, fighting and toddler tantrums. I'm struggling to stay calm while my kids tug on the hem of my dress and the insurance lady prods me again to draw my blood.
When we start working on the health questionnaire, and she asks about any illegal drug use to which I respond about my past recreational marijuana smoking. We realize it's been seven years since the last time I've smoked. "Then maybe there's hope for my little girl," the lady tells me, taking me by surprise.
I look up in her eyes that tell a story of mother's heartbreak. "Yes, with God there is hope. That's who saved me." She briefly tells me about the greatness her sweet daughter passed up to pursue meth and more. Her stage one kidney failure that she refuses to let her mother nurse her back to health from. "She says I am not to blame, but I feel like it's all my fault."
I had been praying for this moment today before the first blood stick. When the sounds of my children, the pang of my hunger, and the smells of a stranger were overstimulating all of my senses. I said to myself God help me see past all of this help me love this person in my house. Help me be patient with my children.
This was the sacred ordinary moment.
I stand up and pull down my book, Sown. I was your daughter. I was the rebellious one breaking my mother's heart. But there's hope, please this is my gift to you and your daughter.
The insurance lady leaves and I cannot believe the vulnerable conversation I had with the stranger who simply came to visit my house for my insurance exam. After she leaves I fix up a snack for the littles and gather materials for the first day of at home preschool.
"A is for afro, A is for atonement, A is for Ascension." 10 apples up on top, 10 popcorn kernels, a piece of buttered bread with toddler measured pumpkin spice dumped on top. "Trace the letter A— for atonement. Can you say atonement?"
We finish homeschool with a prayer. Thank you for letters and books, for Jesus and apples.
We water my plants together, and the littles take turn on my special hammock. A friend picks up a candle from my shop, and we encourage each other in speaking up for our nation's religious freedom. While the kids nap, I swing some more. I check on the garden, picking a tomato and two cucumbers. I hastily eat lunch to rest ever so briefly before the kids wake up. And of course, one wakes up. I cuddle her back to sleep while I rest my body and gather my energy again.
These are the everyday moments, covered in sticky fingerprints and dirt, handling discipline, giving and nourishing. It's everyday. It's sacred. It's nothing out of the ordinary. Yet I'm thankful for these sacred, ordinary moments. Yes, I'm thankful.
