Cracked Pots

It is in the small, silent spaces in life that I realize how richly blessed I am. How many lovely, wonderful, good-listening friends I have. What a wonderful family God has so lavished me with. The phone rings with a friend of many years, and I sigh in relief that in this chasm of a world, I am not alone. The silence is deafening in a home with a sleeping baby, and a husband gone for the evening. But in this silence I get to take stock of the bounty of blessings and I count one by one. Occasionally interrupted by grumpy voices of irritation that my life has not turned out exactly as I had planned, I look through my mind’s eye of the road less traveled and I am thankful for my somewhat uneventful, ordinary life. I am thankful especially for my loved ones that love me in spite of my mood swings and post-partum blues singing. I am thankful for my home that breathes a sense of humor in every corner, except for my bedroom and master bath that reeks of adultness. Speaking of adultness, I am one now. That is somewhat scary to me, as I always have my inner two year old climbing on every counter of my mind, screaming “mine! mine!” and crossing her arms in disbelief that the world, in fact, doesn’t revolve around her after all. What a bummer. My mentor, just yesterday, suggested that I might think about the possibility of surrendering my sense of self-importance, as it might be getting in the way of surrendering my life to the care of a loving God, just for today. For when our lives are run by self-importance, it is much easier for the prayer to get switched to “My Will, Not Thine, Be Done”. I am sure I would be the next in line for the God-position. After all, don’t I know best? Oh my immature, shortsighted mind. I can’t get her to listen for the life of me. But all is well. I am human yet another day and I have two rather large thighs to prove it. Yet grateful they work, even if I will never grace the cover of Mademoiselle or even Plump Petite for that matter. I am keenly aware today, that God needs a cracked pot. His sick sense of humor requires it, you see, to have his Glory Shine Through. Liquid gold glory just a’pourin. All because of my thighs. Man am I holy or what.

Anyways, thanks for listening to my rather poetic wandering there. For a minute I thought I might be a genius. I’m coming out of it now. Back to earth. Back to the dishes and the fact that I am teaching the neighborhood kids how to sing Zipadeedoodah. You know, Zipadeeday, My Oh my what a beautiful day? Yeah, that one. It is a beautiful day after all, isn’t it? At least when I look into their faces I believe that. Even when it is snowing (not—Nashville weather men are liars). Sorry Demetria. She’s not the weatherman, I just thought she deserved an apology anyways. It’s either my codependency or I am starting to feel guilty about making fun of her hair all these years. That’s what you get when you never leave your hometown, even if it is Nashville…