Wednesday, February 10, 2010
The week is blurred on both sides; it is only the moment that comes into focus, like a permanent shallow depth-of-field.
I hear the windchimes outside the house that will be ours for only a few more weeks. Already, we are moving stuff three streets over to our new/old/new house. Pete needs to put in the lighting there. We need more hours in a day.
But the windchimes are singing here today. Loudly. The wind that blew out the clouds overnight and brought the sun in this morning is determined and cold, frolicking as if spring is here, teasing.
I'm a little disoriented. Wistfully disoriented, I think. I feel a bit trapped inside my body today; I am annoyed with my physical limitations. The world is blurred. I am awkward. My legs don't work very well. Neither does my voice. I am weak today.
I've cleaned my inbox, quieted enough to string answers together and reply to a few letters. I don't sleep well in daylight so I haven't napped; I slept until 9:30 this morning, because Pete stayed home to help with the little ones. Now he is feeling ill, and the babies are sleeping.
Finally, I am alone with my thoughts.
Ann Voskamp is hosting her "Walk With Him Wednesday." I have been thinking of how to love like Jesus, but all I can scribble here (is it scribbling to type the words, really?) is vivid memory-etching from Sunday's dim-lit worship, nameless faces, hearts indwelt by Christ.
He came to be me, came to be them, that we might all be washed in grace, clothed together in His righteous. I don't know them. I didn't have to know them. I didn't have to be hurt by them or forgive them to recognize Him in them.
The Motrin has eased the throat-pain now. I try not to be distracted by the fresh chill. I turn up the heat.
Ann has written of love during her family's sick time. I didn't know when I began this post. "One can't love too much," she says. But one can love too little. I am not good at this sort of love. Giving or receiving it. Both require stepping outside of oneself. And that is hard to do, when I am falling apart, body and mind.
But not soul. I can't remember the last time I felt well. I pull myself up, remember my mom's encouragement - "endurance," she has offered me many times. "Sometimes, you just have to get through it."
She is right. The living cannot just stop. Time goes on. Needs don't go away.
I wish for someone to bring a meal tonight. I think I can manage it, though, if I stand long enough. I need to get it before the baby wakes again to eat.
The loving can't stop for weakness.
It endures, doesn't it?
I remember the strep infection I got when Piper was four weeks old. I had a fever, 104 degrees. I was barely conscious, still waking to nurse her, burning hot flesh against my husband in bed, freezing too deep to get warm.
This is not so bad as it was then.
The sun is setting. Day is nearly finished. We'll be up for a few more hours with Bredon's colic now.
Loving like Jesus. It must be done here, in the now - whether I am ready or not. This is how He loved. His eternal God-love met with flesh-limitation, and He sought rest too, bearing burdens, yielding His body to meet our desperate need, giving His life as He traveled with no place to lay His head.
It must be done in today, this loving like Him, leaving yesterday's failures there, taking no thought for tomorrow's grace not-yet-measured.
This love seems stronger than all the other times I love. It is life-giving, life-laying-down. It requires much, more than I know how to give; I grasp what strength I have and hope He will bridge the difference.
And if He doesn't? Well, I know about that. That's when I free-fall. That's when trusting His heart gives me strength to say anyway that "God is good, isn't He?" Sometimes that is more of a question than a statement. And sometimes it is just what I know, because I know His love deep now.
The learning to love like Jesus happens quiet. It is not glamorous like I'd hoped. It is daily, kairos framed in chronos.
Kairos because it is outside time, because Christ-love never fails. Kairos because Jesus is God, God has no beginning or end; God is Love - I cannot fathom the infinite.
I grab another water bottle from beneath my desk. I need to keep drinking, swallowing help over my sore throat, so Bredon can have enough to eat. It is nearly dinner time.
Time to love, I think.
This post also linked at Holy Experience for Walk With Him Wednesday.
(Image © Informal Moments Photography)