I remember now that at the deepest part of Your goodness, You are a parent.
I remember that Your love beckons us beyond our tantrums and selfishness, beyond our mistrust and fear.
Right now, today, we’re the exhausted ones, who come to the end of ourselves over and over again.
We’re sharing sideways glances of What are we supposed to do here?
And we’re also screaming Jesus, help us! in our deepest spaces.
And so I also remember that I’m so limited.
I’m so short-living, so infinitesimal.
Yet at the same time, I’m charged with the great honor of molding, loving, comforting, teaching, and cultivating the hearts of two small boys who are jumping out of their sun-tanned skin with life.
And so we light our candles and drink our coffee, we go on walks and look at the big sky and towering trees, the rushing rivers and playground swings.
We take turns sharing the quiet, when we’re so desperate for it.
O God, Father and Mother God, fully parent, fully caretaker and provider God, You are our rest.
In midnight tossing, you’re hope.
And in the midst of what sometimes feels like hell, we quiet ourselves, again.
Cherish the moment, not the task.
Look them in the eyes.
Remember patience and love.
And as I whisper this mantra to myself, to my husband, over this household’s two bedrooms, over the balcony garden and sunroom, over the kitchen sink, over the bathroom where my boys brush their teeth, over my closet where they play dress-up with my clothes–
over every surface they touch–
we pray that You’d make it all holy.
We pray that You, our good parent, might teach us again, every moment of every day, how to do this,
when our limbs can barely carry us and our hearts are weary from trying to love right in honor of Your love.
Lead on, we pray.