It’s not light yet. I see a glow from the almost full moon and rays of artificial street light from behind the trees. But it is dark. Everyone still sleeps, at least in my house.
The clock shines red numbers on the ceiling — a four and a three and a zero. He’s done it again. For the 4th or 5th time in a row. Awake at exactly 4:30am. Sometimes even a few minutes earlier. He wants me to have an hour with Him before I start my day.
On “sleep-in days”, He gets me up at 5:30.
Sometimes it’s a husband getting up to use the bathroom that wakes me.
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Love is patient, love is kind. 1 Corinthians 13:4
“Lord, please strike him with a holy bolt of lightning,” I prayed. “No real damage. Just enough to scorch him a little.”
Okay, so I don’t normally pray for my husband’s ruin, but let me explain what happened.
It was a Friday night when Grace was still four months old. I heard her in the monitor and tapped my husband, mumbling something like, “Grshisup.” He stumbled from the bed and down the hall. I followed to make him a bottle and then flopped back in bed. Minutes later, my sleep bubble burst when Alan stomped in our room.
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Blessings have always seemed to be the symbol of the favor of God, of being in His will. And when they’ve rained down upon my head, I have to say that I have felt incredibly loved by God.
Not that I deserved the blessings – never, ever will that be the case. But maybe I felt that, by receiving them, I’d reached some sort of apex. A finish line, of sorts.
That’s how I used to think. Now I know differently.
Blessings are not what bring fulfillment to this life. If you don’t believe this, think back over the blessings in your life.
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The slide, thump, slide, thump of my imagination raced in time with my heart as ordinary shadows of my dresser, lamp, and bedpost turned into monsters ambling closer to surround me. While I held a feeble shield of covers drawn taunt around my body, I closed my eyes in my last defense against the things that lurked beyond. Midnight, one o’clock, two o’clock and on, my fear of these quiet hours turned my room into something that it was not. Thankfully, when the morning came all my fears were forgotten in the light. But when night came again, the cycle repeated, and I trembled in fear at the monsters in my closet.
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“Mom, Dad, come quick! Gloria fell! She’s on the sidewalk and can’t get up! She’s bleeding!” Breathless from running, Grace provided us with the details of what had suddenly transpired with her sister. We’d only just arrived at the pool and the girls wanted to go on ahead of us while my husband and I gathered our gear from the car. Excitedly, both girls took off toward the gate, the younger one trying desperately to keep up with the older one. Unfortunately, uneven concrete and new flip flops turned out to be a painful combination for my little one when she stumbled and fell face-first on the hard and unforgiving pavement.
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Burned out. Out of gas. No energy. Running on empty. Exhausted. Have you ever felt this way? I have had more days like this than I care to admit. There are times when I have so much on my plate that I can actually feel myself shutting down both mentally and physically. I am unable to think without feeling as if I am walking through a thick fog, and even the simplest of tasks become hard to accomplish. Could I actually be suffering from “burnout”?
Burnout: physical or mental collapse caused by overwork or stress.
As a busy wife and mom with a full-time job and ministry, life can be overwhelming at times.
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My five-year-old daughter sat at our kitchen table “cooking.” With contentment etched all over her face, she poured uncooked rice from bowl to bowl using brightly colored spoons and measuring cups. Her imaginary culinary treat for the day? Chocolate cake!
She explained each ingredient to me as she carefully measured and poured. And when her cake was almost finished, she added one last scoop saying, “Don’t forget the joy.” I looked up from what I was doing and asked her to repeat what she had said. “Don’t forget the joy,” she replied, her tone very matter of fact.
I stood there surprised and a bit convicted.
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When I was a little girl, I was not allowed to play in the court where we lived without the watchful eye of an adult or older sibling. Even though it appeared safe, my parents were afraid a car would come barreling around the corner, putting me in harm’s way. And they did not want me to attempt to venture over to the other side by myself, risking my safety.
As I grew older, I received the much anticipated lesson on how to cross the street to avoid injury. This lesson was called, “Stop, look and listen”. When I would come to the part of the court where it met the street, they first taught me to stop.
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