Monday morning screams loudly. I wrestle my healing body out of the bed knowing that I am back “on duty” this week. The morning passes through with screams from a daughter who can’t seem to agree on when and how to get dressed.
Tuesday dawns and again, I wrestle this body that is not healing quick enough and again tears and screams from the girl-child and I find myself back on the couch wondering where we went wrong? Lunch with a husband where I throw words and worries and concerns all over him, instead of covering him with grace in the midst of his day.
Wednesday morning dawns and it’s the day of celebration for the boy-child. Laughter and cinnamon rolls and I wonder, is this what it takes to get us moving in the morning without tears?
And why can’t this be everyday?
When Thursday morning dawns, and there is nothing specific to celebrate, will the moans from my body be greater? Will the tears from the girl-child return?
I read Ann’s words this morning, reminding me that “it’s not about changing what I see, but the way I see it.” I continue reading about blackness and control and anger smothering, bitterness crushing joy and I am reminded of the dwarfs we read about last night.
These dwarfs in a dark stable, surrounded by beauty, by the Kings and Queens of Narnia, by Aslan himself…yet refusing to believe. Refusing to see. Aslan rumbles at them and they call it a machine trying to frighten them. He shakes his mane and a feast is set at their feet and they can’t even taste it properly…”eating and drinking the sort of things you might find in a stable.” Then they quarrel, thinking one dwarf has a better cup of dirty trough water than the other. Never once stopping to see that they were no longer in a stable, but in a beautiful field under an amazing sky. Then Aslan’s words:
“They will not let us help them. They have chosen cunning instead of belief. Their prison is only in their own minds, yet they are in that prison; and so afraid of being taken in that they cannot be taken out.”
And what is my prison? Wearing anger to hide my sadness. Reacting too quickly. Fighting over a cup of trough water instead of seeing the cup of amazing wine in front of me. I can choose to see. I can choose to step back, to stare into those eyes that are hurting instead of screaming more hurt. I can choose to stop and count the “ugly-beautiful” in the midst of a dawdling daughter.
Like Jacob, I beg the blessing of the Lord…with the pain.
That I might have eyes that are taken out of the blackness, out of the stable and into the beauty of the field and into the eyes of Aslan himself.