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.