for all the days you feel like this
There was this morning that I spent pretty much entirely in bed.
My friend delivered gallons of farm fresh milk and Otto dropped an egg on the floor and I stood in the kitchen with counters crowded with bowls for yogurt and granola that hadn’t yet happened and I cried and she said, “Can I take your kids to play with mine for the day?” and I nodded.
“Thank you,” I hope I said. Maybe I forgot to say that.
I’ve said it before.
I will say it again.
Life is hard ya’ll.
Being a human is just plain hard work.
And she left with my bouncing-off-the-walls-with-enthusiasm children and I sank back to the covers, still wearing that pair of shorts that you would never leave your house in. It was a beautiful day so I did open the windows and the screen door but I just couldn’t bring myself to actually go outside.
Some days are just like that – right?
Some days you don’t really ponder and you don’t really pray, you just sort of sit.
You just sort of wait for the next hour to pass and you just sort of hope that the roller coaster you are on has tight enough seat belts and you just close your eyes and feel a little thankful that for a few minutes no one needs anything from you and no one is calling your name and no one is asking for a popsicle and no one is asking how you are and no one even knows you are sitting in bed wearing those old black shorts with your hair all weird and your face all wet.
I think these days are okay.
I think they are part of the package of grief and crisis and pain and motherhood and brokenness and hopes deferred and expectations unmet.
My sweet readers, I know I kind of feel as if you guys are my friends now – more than ever before actually.
I know it’s a little weird, how blogging and posting and computer friendships work.
But I hope you guys have in-person friends who take your children out into the sunshine and let them be kids for a day. Friends who stop by late at night to see how you are and friends who text and friends who send you surprise earrings in the mail and friends who don’t care about your weird hair and your old clothes.
I hope you have less days lying in bed and more days sitting in the sunshine.
And I hope I do too.
9 Comments
Ruth
I awakened this evening plagued with a bout of fierce heartburn, and cannot rest, and you are on my mind. I believe the Lord does that on purpose, so I am praying for you, and your precious babies, and all the things you must face. This song came to mind, and so I share it with you. Tal and Acacia “Warrior Child”
The day is ended and you’re not even dressed
It’s taken all you have to just get out of bed
The war has kept you on your knees and you confess
“I am tired, there’s nothing left.”
When all you had was given in the raging fight
You fear your life has been wasted here in this cold night
Empty and alone you cry those precious tears
“Warrior child, I’m still here.”
Forsaken? Not my warrior child.
Abandoned? Never will I forget you
My child, I love you so
And someday you’ll finally know
But until then
Please be strong.
You’ve carried soldiers on your back to get them here
The wounded broken ones you fought for all those years
You fed them all you have and now you’re weak and faint
Loved you are, in heaven’s gates.
Forsaken? Not my warrior child.
Abandoned? Never will I forget you
My child, I love you so
And someday you’ll finally know
But until then
Would you please be strong?
Forsaken, not my warrior child.
Abandoned, never will I forget you
My child, I love you so
And someday you’ll finally know
But until then
Please be strong.
Even in your weakest moments, you are so strong! He is the lifter of your head, and will never leave you or forsake you. Thank you Jesus for loving us the way You do!
laceykeigley
Thank you for sharing — thank you for spending time praying for me. I hardly know what to do with some gracious prayers sent on my behalf.
The “lifter of my head” – yes, he is.
Sara
Days Like This: Hopes Deferred and Expectations Unmet
“Life is hard, ya’ll”
The sun beams in my window pane.
The dust moats sink and soar.
I hear the fridge soft roaring.
And me? I sit and stare.
I sit. I stare. I cannot care.
The clock chimes quarter hours.
The leaves of trees dance up
And down to wind tunes in the air.
Phone calls and texts from friends
who care.
My Bible lies unread.
The energy used up in prayer
I use for breath instead.
The burnt red rocker doesn’t rock
As I just sit and stare
My tattered comfort warms me,
though
My heart no comfort feels.
“Perhaps Today”
My eyes do rise eventually.
“Whoever would draw near”
Is carved in wood grain on my wall
And “Me!” I cry. “That’s me.”
“I long to draw so very near
To You, My God and King.
I do believe that You exist
And That I’ll find You when I seek.”
“I do believe that You reward
My feeble, faltering faith
And I believe You when You say
You’re coming back someday.”
“Even so come quickly, Lord Jesus.”
With strength that’s His alone, not
mine
With breath from others’ prayers
I rise up from this old red chair.
I rise to work again.
Yes, sweet Lacey. I get it too. If only in a small way.
And it is ok to have those days-even if their only good is a rest, a timeout that prepares us for tomorrow.
“Keep showing up”
Many prayers and much love,
Sara
laceykeigley
My goodness.
What gorgeous words you wrote there.
Helen
So thankful for your friends close by that can do that for you. Prayers being sent your way!
Beth
I get it. I love you. You are not alone.
Elizabeth McKinnon
It’s been hard for me to get out bed for the last few months as well – different circumstances, but there is pain. Here’s a poem/journaling that I wrote about how I was feeling two months ago:
Waiting for the next time you speak
With each wind, turn, click, touch
Wondering if something, anything, will be there
Reminding me that You have not forgotten what we’ve had
What we could have.
The promise of “one day” seems too far away
What keeps me from, like a bird, migrating to another place?
I can only stand the cold for so long.
I can only tolerate death for a season.
But this season has lasted far longer than promised:
The feeling of expectations not met.
It seems natural, instinctive to fly away
To search for another home for this season
To flee the barren trees and find refuge under the shade of palms.
Does a bird ever wonder if they will return?
Or do they go knowing that to flee this uncertain environment
Is the only way to survive.
Yet you ask me to stay.
When all of nature says to go.
How can I trust you when I cannot trust how you have made me?
Where are you?
Why do you remain silent?
Saying for me to draw near, when everything is dead.
Yet – in the darkness of the morning, before the sun has risen
I hear the birds chirping.
They are back. Spring is coming.
Darkness will soon be overtaken by the Light.
laceykeigley
Thank you for sharing Elizabeth.
The promise of one day does feel far away some days – doesn’t it?
Elizabeth McKinning
Way too far away. Sometimes I wonder if it will be in this life – and then, like you, I pray “Jesus Come Quickly.”