My hair hangs wildly askew, framing my tired face. There wasn't time to fix it (or apply make-up) as I went through the motions of my morning. Coffee was downed, Bible was read, prayers were breathed, children were fed, diapers were changed, kids were dressed, baby was nursed, lunch was prepared...
I hear the giggles of children as they ride their pretend train (aka the couch) to some imaginary destination. I wish I was aboard. I need a vacation.
The baby is sleeping (finally) after days battling against a fever with medicine and constant snuggles.
I feel weary. I feel tired. I feel empty.
I can't count on one hand the number of times I've snapped at my children today. Upset that they're jumping on furniture, or spilling drinks, or being too loud, or waking the baby.
I'm frustrated with myself that I've been so frustrated with my infant's constant cries and whines. I wish I knew better how to ease his discomfort.
In moments like this I feel the most human. My emotions are raw, my body is weary, my soul is thirsty... I know that my calling is beyond my capability.
But deep within me is a thanksgiving song-- to the One who sustains me. To the One who wakes me each morning with life and breath and being. To the One who holds my children more tightly than I do. To the One who holds me as well.