It comes in the still. The overwhelming realization that He was there in the chaos.
The chaos of getting two kids to school with two matching shoes–the Hello Kitty ones with the pink bows– The smoke filled kitchen that smells because I burnt the eggs while trying to pack lunches of grapes and cheese and peanut butter sandwiches. Scribbled on napkins are love notes–just like Mom used to give us. I still remember.
I feel small whisps of His presence as I go along. As I drop a seven year old, with big melt your heart blue eyes and a face full of freckles off at school, a verse is spoken to my spirit.
See how very much our Father loves us, for he calls us his children, and that is what we are!
But then the youngest one starts complaining that her stomach aches, and I remember that I dropped that blue eyed boy off with a cough. My worry for him makes me worry that she might get sick too. And by the afternoon, she is curled up on my bed. 101.2 temperature, telling me about love.
“I love you Miss Audrey. Can I just lie here and snuggle?”
“Tell me what you think love is, London. What does it mean that Jesus loves us?”
And with such a pure heart, she says,
“He just loves us. That’s all.”
And it feels like there should be more, but in the end, after the kids are tucked into bed and tears have rolled down your cheek–partly because you’re exhausted and partly because you realize you are in no way prepared to be a mother–this is all that really matters.
All that really matters is that He loves us. Enough to heal our aching bodies, enough to encourage us with postcards sent from friends across the globe, and enough to remind us that when all is said and done–when the midnight moon rises in the night sky and the weary earth rests–His will be done.
He comes to me in the still.