I cradle my favorite autumn yellow mug and sip hot, creamy coffee.
It’s 7:58am. We’ve been up for two hours. I grin. It’s a typical morning for us. Quiet, peaceful, the birds still shaking off the chill of Spring nighttime.
The music hums in our messy kitchen:
“… Nothing is impossible for you… nothing is impossible for you… Jesus You’re all I need, more than enough for me…”. My morning anthem – Kari Jobe singing to Jesus on the little ipod.
I stand looking out the oversized back window, open journal in front of me.
I sigh, almost snort.
Yeah, I know comfort.
My brow furrows.
Comfort – she’s my best friend. She’s safe. She’s so easy. I’ve known her all too well.
I could count and count and count the gifts I daily receive.
And I do. Sloppy thankfulness sprawled by the window table.
The Lupines grow fresh in our low country window sill. I smile, but it’s weak.
8:01 AM, I glance at the clock. My mind flies to Uganda. It’s late afternoon there. I wonder how our friends are, what they’re up to. If it’s rainy there again today. I wonder if a Mama like me sits alone this very moment. Needing. Desperately needing some of these comforts I take for granted.
A Garden sprouting beans and tomatoes.
Me and my easy life. My having everything always. We mutter, “we’re broke”, but we don’t even know the meaning of going without. We are filthy rich, actually. Really.
And I want to know it and not only be thankful for all this, but actually do something with the much I’ve been given. DO something with this abundance. A wise and cherished friend taught me how to transform my life by counting gifts and I did this two years ago and why did I stop? I’ve started up again.
And it awakens me to everything. Every little thing – every gift. And I’m giddy and happy all day long. He meets me where the pen hits the page.
#537 – Grandma’s Strawberry Rhubarb pie…
#538 – Sister. Home.
#539 – Grandpa. Just him.
#540 – Bike rides to paradise.
#541 – Frogs and Toads peeking out, everywhere!
And so it goes… my blessed life. And it IS. And it isn’t wrong to have a life of gifts. It’s what we do with them that makes us deeply grateful and humbled or completely oblivious and spoiled. And for some reason, this morning, my list is sitting like a clump in my stomach.
Because doesn’t He give so we can pour out?
Have I poured?
I’ve certainly received.
Friends, why has it become radical Christianity to sell a car so hungry children can eat?
Radical? I gulp it back. Lord, help us, we’re so far from You.
And to cry it in coffee cups for the pain of knowing and loving comfort too much.
I stack dishes and listen to our children banter about who is boss. Boss – isn’t that it? We all want to be boss. But the truth is, we don’t know what we need. We think we need more when we always, always need less.
Less stuff. Less food. Less comfort. Less.
What we need is more of Jesus. More love. More selflessness. More gratitude. More giving bubbling up from everything we’ve already received.
Oh, Lord, help me be crazy aware of my own comfort. Help me fight the lie that this is what I’m made for. The picket fence and the country gardens – I love them too much and it should bother me.
Yes, God, help us humbly stay bowed at Your feet. Show us Your way. Yes, we have much and we are comfortable but we are called out of this and into something unbelievably different and defined by You. Show us, Lord.
Because Your plan – oh, it’s so much better.
I gaze out the window past a bouquet of dandelions the kids collected. A cherished gift for Mother’s Day weekend… weeds… I can’t help but giggle. But they are so beautiful. Amazing how God makes glorious beauty out of weeds. I sip a second cup of coffee and write it down:
#596 – Coffee and morning window gazing
#597 – Weeds, beautiful in morning glory… weeds made glorious
Father God, help me see and emerge far beyond this window of comfort. Far, far beyond only myself. Take this broken girl of much and make me beautifully poured out for You.
Happy weekend, friends. And big hugs and blessings for Mother’s Day. Mama’s Day… grasp it and take hold of those little ones.