Now in my mid-30's, I have enough life-years under my belt to be able to look back on my life and see a kind of a pattern. Life, for myself and others, is not consistently "smooth sailing," a Route 66 stretching out indefinitely toward the horizon with nary a bump in the road. Life consists of the proverbial ups and downs -- bright soaring mountaintops with crystal clear views, and dark swampy valleys with tangles and brambles tripping you up along the way. I have experienced both -- I have stood at the top of the mountain, arms outstretched, drenched with blessings. And I have stumbled in the valley, arms blindly outstretched, fear gripping my heart with each faulty step. I have experienced both.
I tumbled off the mountain a few years ago and have been struggling through my valley's path. I admit I have fallen prey in my moments of weakness, where my heart should be strong, where my faith should be secure. During those long days of fallenness, it's easy to succumb, to fall and not want to rise again, to keep thoughts glued to the pitfalls instead of the blessings. It's easy to let the vines of fear -- fear of the unknown, fear of things we cannot control -- tangle around shaky legs. It's easy to forget that these vines are not new, and that God has always cut them away. It's easy to get stuck, mired ...
I visited a new blog this morning of one of the "Clubfoot Moms" from the online group to which I belong, and her post was entitled "Thankfulness." She very simply listed the things for which she was thankful. Period. It was simple -- it was beautiful. It was a reminder that I do so often get stuck in the valley, that I am prone to overlook the perfect moments of beauty and blessing in my life because I fret over those tangling vines.
I had one such experience yesterday, and I thank God that He was able to open my eyes to the perfect transcendence of the moment. Every day Grace wakes up from her nap at 3:00 p.m. Usually I have to wake her up, rather than any movement of her own toward consciousness. She's quite like me in that regard -- she could sleep for hour upon hour, and waking up is not an easy thing to do. Because of her cumbersome brace, she refuses the potential tangled fight with a blanket and prefers to sleep bundled in several layers. During these cold months, I end up putting her fleecy pajamas over top of her regular "day" clothes, with a thick sleeper wrapping up the package. When she wakes up -- if you can call it that -- she sits up blindly in her bed, arms outstretched, waiting for me to pick her up. She's getting heavy, and she's so long, but she still fits perfectly. She lays her head on my shoulder as I carry her into the living room, where we sit together in the chair for about 10 minutes or so. I often wonder if she's going to fall back asleep, but usually she's just content to rest there, Consciousness slowly beckoning at her own speed, head nestled on my chest, thumb in mouth.
Yesterday afternoon, I experienced the blessing of transcendence. It was no different than any other day; she lay peacefully in my arms, head resting in the crook of my arm, eyes closed, long lashes brushing her cheeks. Usually I just sit there, blankly enjoying the little break before she fully wakes up and wreaks havoc around me. My mind is usually empty; I even close my eyes. But yesterday was different. I experienced a peace I haven't felt in a long, long, long time. It suddenly washed over me, what I was doing, who I was holding. I looked down at her anew; I was astounded at the perfect transcendence of that moment. I took in every feature, wondering where she got her eyes, or her nose, or little round chin. I lightly laid my hand on her head, her hair shimmering, a cloth of sheer silk. And in that moment of pure peace and thankful joy for this perfect blessing in my bramble-strewn life, I immediately felt nothing -- no fear, no anxiety, no care for the bills pouring in, no care for the income slipping out, no worry for the unknown future which at time seems so dim. Nothing. Just complete transcendence, a burden momentarily lifted, pure peace.
I was struck by the water metaphors popping up lately. First the devotional entry from a few days ago, being still in the screaming squalls of life threatening to overturn my weak vessel. And yesterday, peace did not necessarily come flowing like a river, for the moment did not last very long at all, fleeting at best.
But it did come -- it came more like a little drop of rain, wrapped up in one sleepy bundle of a little precious girl.
How I pray for more moments like this.
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