Behind the 8 Ball, Under the Gun, and Other Uncomfortable Places

Ah, fall. Football, soccer, back-to-school. It's all the hustle and bustle of adjusting to a new normal, however crazy it may be. The madness of having six children to occupy every day is replaced with the madness of children with things to do away from home every day. It seems like the whole world is racing past, and I, as usual, am so busy trying to keep up that I am missing it all. There is a certain desperation to my days...wake up, get out of bed, get everyone fed and dressed and out the door, then try to bring some order to the house, run whatever errands need run, and brace myself for the afternoon rush of homework, dinner, lessons and sports. Once the kids are in bed, I try to get things at least somewhat prepared for the next day before I crash, gathering a few (interrupted) hours of sleep before it all starts again.

There is certainly an element of chaos to my life. I need a degree of order to make the chaos manageable, but it seems to elude me. I can't help but be aware of truths that chastise me for the state of my world: God is a God of order, not of chaos. Very often, I realize that if I were just better prepared and better organized, these things would not affect me so dramatically. It is my shortcomings that make little things loom large. And I feel so alone in it. That voice that reminds me of divine order is answered by a heart that cannot see order, and therefore fears that the divine has drawn back, leaving me to stumble about and grasp in desperation for a bit of calm, a bit of silence, anything to keep me from being completely overrun.

I believe, in the very core of my soul, that there is always a purpose -- that there is a divine order, and that no amount of laundry, soccer, homework, and meal preparation can disrupt it. My inability to see is just that: my inability to see. My vision has become clouded and narrow. This whirlwind that tosses me from one day to the next is only a tiny speck in the grandeur of God's design. He is above it, beyond it, and despite my fears to the contrary, he is the very fiber that weaves it into being. He is here in my chaos. He is here in my blindness. I feel too swept away to reach for him, but he holds me still.

And so, for today, I pray for courage to repent of my blindness, and my smallness of heart and mind. I cast myself upon the grace that bears me up and beg for mercy, acutely aware that I deserve none, but confident that his redeeming love surpasses all. His justice is satisfied in Calvary. His righteousness spurs me on, and calls me to open my eyes, lay bare my heart, and let him heal my unbelief -- to be filled by love that does not grow weary -- love that is fed and that blossoms even as it is poured out. Not by might, not by power, but by the spirit of the Lord of all.