It’s been a while since I’ve typed in this space–it’s been a season full of family and friends and last minute school projects and, and, and. An apple cider spill on my laptop keyboard put me out of commission for a while too. I’ll admit, I missed it. But it was a needful quiet as we gathered to give thanks for all things.
With new keyboard installed, I am linking up today with the Gypsy Mama for her five minute Friday prompt: “Tired.” It’s when we “stop, drop and write” for five minutes without putting our best editing faces forward. So here we go:
Tired. Of course. It goes along with the mothering territory. I thought I was tired when they were all small . . . when the nightly interruptions taxed my weary frame . . . when I was literally drained in the lonely hours.
But now it’s a new tired. A tired that comes from a different place inside. A tired that has been in the car all day, dizzy from running the same roads hour upon hour. A tired that is learning to trust when the fifteen year old makes travel plans to third-world Africa. A tired that wonders how to navigate new waters of transitioning children to adulthood.
My own strength is gone, but this is His way. He wants me in this place where I can only rest in Him. That place where His strength is perfected in weakness.
It is early morning and I look at the little wooden Mary on my table—Mary, swollen with salvation’s plan. There is a weariness common to all mothers, but hers was an exquisite load to bear. Yet she knew her place–a humble servant who learned the strength of His mighty arm.
And His arms, the ones that were swaddled tight in Mary’s arms, the ones that stretched out on a cross to deliver me, are the everlasting arms that carry me, tired and all.