There is a quiet corner of morning when it’s just me and my newest teenager–the two of us in the kitchen.  Hers is the first bus, so she is up early.  She is making her lunch, trying to conjure up a little bit of breakfast hunger before she heads up the hill.

My flesh would rather sleep in, but my heart wants to be part of the early edge of her day.  We don’t say much.  We are just together.  I light a candle and stir my coffee.  She ventures a word or two:  “Sometimes I’m down here alone and it’s just me.  It’s so quiet.”  She is the one who has always tried to fill the soundless spaces.  The extrovert.

A single curl slips across her forehead and she tucks it behind the curve of her ear.  I remember the tiny girl of thirteen years ago, her hair just coming in.  One dark lock of silk spun out of bounds and gave clues about who she’d be.  A bit adventurous.  Not the sitting still type.

She manages a smile as she heads out the door.  She says her day will be “glorious”–her new favorite word.  And as I slowly lean into my own new day, I wonder:  What will make it a glorious day for me?

I find myself musing on this–and defining “glorious” in terms of my own agenda.  If the  home-schoolers do their work cheerfully and are kind to one another–yes, that will be glorious.  Perhaps if I make some headway on my long “to-do” list–that will be glorious too.  If I have time to take a walk or call my mom–wouldn’t that be glorious?

Well, it might not work out the way that I hope it will and what then?  Can I still have a day that drips “glory?”  His glory?

What is glory, really, but magnifying of the essence of a thing?  The heavens are telling His glory because they are showing us His uncontainable wonder.  Christ glorified His Father by displaying the true nature of God caught in frail flesh.  I can hardly imagine the moment when He stepped into time and the heavens opened with extravagant praise:  “Glory to God in the highest!” 

And, somehow, in the mystery of His grace, I am called to be a part of this “glory” too, filled with His very essence. 

I wish I knew more what this looks like.  I know my catechism.  I know that my chief end is to glorify God.  But how do I do it when my son puts a hole in the wall (twice!) and the dishes from three meals are strewn on the countertop, and there’s a snarl of shoe traffic in the entryway, and . . . and. . . and . . .

Perhaps this “glorifying” cannot be weighed by my circumstances or accomplishments.  No, it must be more of a daily offering of myself on His altar of refinement that I might be brought more and more into His likeness, even in the daily-ness of my day.  Especially in the daily-ness of my day.  Oh that He would reveal and purify my heart so that it puts the essence of who He is on display, whatever comes my way. 

I turn toward the front window.  I watch my daughter walk up the road.  And my heart longs that indeed, it might be a glorious day.

About Julie

A happy wife, a mom on the learning curve, a daughter of the King . . .
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2 Responses to Glorious

  1. juliesunne says:

    “Perhaps this ‘glorifying’ cannot be weighed by my circumstances or accomplishments. No, it must be more of a daily offering of myself on His altar of refinement that I might be brought more and more into His likeness, even in the daily-ness of my day. Especially in the daily-ness of my day.”
    Julie, I think you hit the nail on the head with these sentences! If glorifying God means singing happily through my day as chaos and ugliness churn within it, then I am in trouble. Offering ourselves, pursuing Him–that is glorifying. Thank you, thank you for helping to explain a concept that is difficult to get our humanness around!

  2. Frederic Scheffler says:

    You have expressed yourself with “glorious” words. Today your mother and I celebrated our glorious monthaversary, and I think of Him and thank Him for 48+ glorious years together. And I thank Him for three wonderful children and 12 exceptional grandchildren – including that 13-year-old. We can’t wait for our trip to Vermont for Thanksgiving.

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