Most of the night last night, I was awake. When I did sleep, I had a dream that I printed out my manuscript and it fell from the printer like soup. So I grabbed a little Japanese bowl to catch it with and took a sip without thinking. And then I worried because I wasn’t sure which chapter I ate.
My youngest is struggling through asthma this week. I hold him, warm and wheezy while he asks me for his medicine at 5 am. I step on a matchbox car in the sunroom on the way to get it. I think about turning 33 this week: the Jesus age.
He finally falls asleep and I watch as the air outside his window turns from black to glowing blue. His breathing is more even now, though raspy and loud. My own body is fighting off a cold and my mind is fighting off anxiety. My spirit has been sweetly redeemed by Jesus, but my mind still hasn’t caught up. And so I set it on truth, over and again. In some ways it has taken hold; in other ways I’m still waiting.
Sometimes I fight the rhythm of this God-breathed life. I try to force it smooth and shiny even though I should know better than that by now. I wheeze and cough my way through it, struggling against the tempo He has set. Today, I choose to receive His way of things, to breathe in this day as from His hand. It is really the only way to peace.