All day she squirmed and wiggled, hung upside down and jumped from couch to bench to try and contain her excitement. And just after 5 p.m., I caught her sitting on the couch with her backpack on.
No pants, mind you.
Just a tank top, flip flops and her little leopard backpack stuffed with coloring books and said marshmallows.
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| serving early morning "pie" |
"I'm ready to go, Mom."
I know sweet one. Soon enough.
Today was also makeshift office space. Today was figuring out all the odds and ends and trying as hard as I might to make as many people happy as possible, because I like happy clients. And I like happy friends. And I like a happy me. So it was emails and websites and more lists and errands and phone calls. And we did it.
I'm not good at resting. I'm just not. I keep myself really busy. But more and more, I'm realizing that if I'm ever going to truly enjoy anything I need to start saying no to something. I want to get it all done because deep down, something in me fears that if I don't, everyone will notice who I really am. They'll see to the core of all my hurt and sin and longing and emptiness. I will disappoint everyone with how unimpressive I actually am all the way down to my marrow. So I keep busy. Occupied always. In heart. In head. In hands.
Except not now. Not today. Not this week. Grace sweeps in and I remember I'm carried. Rest pours a rich balm and I notice, down to my core, the Gospel is still at work, despite me. And under that Grace, I can stand, toes in sand, eyes on an endless blue and lean into the wind and waves.
I hope you rest soon. In heart. In head. In hands. It takes a good amount of courage to admit that the world doesn't need you to keep running, spinning plates. But it's a beautiful moment of grace to relieve you from that pressure. So be courageous, get your backpack on and head out to the sea.
(But for the rest of us, put some pants on, ok?)
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