What I Love: holding my baby (who is not much of a baby anymore) on my lap and feeling the weight of her on me. I have recently become aware of this weight that she is on me when she lays on my lap and I covet that feeling and cherish it and am so much more aware of the fact that sooner than I expect she will be as big as my son and won’t want to cuddle up on momma’s lap. Until then; I stop and let her lie.
It’s always amazing to me what happens when I vent. Even after I wrote my post yesterday, I piddled around the house complaining about the nurses and doctors who told me to come in to the office. And then today I read this post and it put everything back into perspective. Here is a snippet:
So I let Him spoon the words in deliberately. So I don’t die. (And yet do.) I sit for hours, waiting for an appointment. A computer rebels before a deadline. A project unravels. He asks me to accept, lift, sip deeply, “How can I repay the Lord for all his goodness to me? I will lift up the cup.” Perhaps, in small, unremarkable ways, I too can enter into the communion joy of dying to self? A child wails and clings, and I’m late and the oatmeal burns. Again to open dry lips: “Give thanks for his torrent of good. Lift up the cup. Drink it all down.” Perhaps, in this high calling to humble living, it is possible to remember daily his far greater sacrifice, his innumerable unmerited kindnesses, and choose to give thanks for whatever he gives in the moment—all of it.
Yes, to drink of his passion. In choosing to drink down the moments simply as they come, without chaffing, is this the wholesale gratitude he entreats of us?