I open my Bible, eager for something that can be used to express what I feel right now.
The 63rd psalm.
God, You are my God...
God, You are my God...
I soak it up. I am a lion, hungry, starved for meat, for substance. I find what I am looking for and more.
God, You are so good.
Finally opening the devotional that has blessed me so much, I read. I write. I pause, reflecting on what I know to be true. I challenge myself, and then I pray.
God, Thank you so much for allowing me to have this time full of You today...
I glance at my phone to check the time. 6:53. I gather my things, blowing off sand and smoothening the pages. As I rise to begin the walk back, the rooster crows. A muted baaa rises from the sheep pen and I speeden my steps towards “home”.
Mama is up. She greets me as I place my things on the table and receive a frying pan full of stuff. good stuff.
She is off for the showers, off for a bit of hot water before the heaters run cold. I plug in the fry pan and pick up two eggs. They remind me of the plans I have made for myself, the plans that I scribbled into the margins of my lifebook,the one in God's hands. Smooth and white and firm, the eggs are still under my hands. I have control.
God has control.
I tap the eggs against the pan, urging them to let me coax out the good. They groan. I tap harder and have to hit them one last time before they give in. They crack. I open them, dropping the insides into the bowl and throwing away the shell.
Lord, you may crack me. I know that sometimes I protest, but I'm giving you back the pen. It hurts when you throw away the shell, the shell of my “perfect life...”
Trust Me, Daughter. I will give you joy.
I grab more eggs, emptying each in turn. 14 eggs. I beat them mercilessly before pouring in milk, cold and sweet. Like grace.
See, daughter? Even when life gets tough, I give grace.
I grind salt and pepper into my eggy mixture, the mixture that is giving me lessons in Him. I cut a pat of butter, and it turns to liquid gold under the heat of the pan. I hear the door open and a little arm clothed in brown flowered pajamas pushes it open enough to stick her face out. Dimples deep enough to hold the Pacific beam up at me and a small voice proclaims delightedly, "Hi Deedee!" the thought comes before I can stop it.
There goes my peace and quiet! I won't be alone for the rest of the day!
Then the Voice comes again.
Remember child, I give grace and strength. All you need to do is ask.
I swoop the girl up in my arms and she laughs. I give her a good morning hug before setting her down next to me and brushing back the sleeptangled hair.
“Me too, Deedee? Me eggs?”
I let her grind a bit more salt into the gloopy bowlful, and then I mix one more time before pouring them into the sizzling pan.
I stir, scraping the pan clean.
Ellie talks on and on, gleeful at her time alone with big sister.
The eggs are done.
I turn off the heat, cover them to keep them warm.
I lay out plates and Ellie puts a muffin on each one. A muffin loses a chocolate chip to a hungry two year old, but I pretend to be too busy pouring water to notice.
I see Mom on her way back and hear another voice by the door, “me too! Me help too!” and suddenly the campsite is full of noise and children.
I dish eggs. and grace.
“I want cheese!”
“Please pass the salt. I SAID, please pass the salt!”
A cup overturns, spilling its contents onto the table, the bowl of eggs and the bench.
I remember, Lord. Joy and grace.
So I grab another bowl. And I serve up more eggs, with an extra helping of grace.