I'm back, Jack. It's been a doozy of a virus I've had and let me tell you I don't "do sick" well. I actually don't have a place in my repertoire for getting sick. It might come from when I was pregnant, teaching full time, finishing my Masters degree part time, and vomiting full time. I had morning ("all day") sickness all nine months. I would be teaching children, run out of the room to vomit, and be back before they finished their easy reader. I was efficient. I was a very efficient vomiter. One of my Asian ESL students that year drew a picture of me with my Gatorade, saltines, and cheese slices. No kidding. I pushed through and now my pain tolerance is quite high. Pridefully high. Don't-stop-me-now high. And at one point a few years ago was scary high, so since then I try to listen to my body, but I'm not very good at that.
But illness is a good time for God to slow this speed train down. I have learned to submit to illness. Just like I'm learning to submit to a bedtime. God designed our bodies for rest, not for conquering Rome while burning the midnight oil. I'm trying to be a little more gentle with myself. Ah. Isn't that a lovely thought? Yep, sounds like a bunch of crap to me, too.
But really, I've been reflecting on how I got this way. What events were placed in my path for me to be here. I am in the middle of writing my legacy letter to my daughters, and maybe I'll share it via blog, but really, God why do I love you? God what will my daughters remember about me years from now?
I suppose it began in my mom's Mercury Cougar when I was four. Watching her silently pray on our way to her Bible Study. I knew God was loving. I knew she was talking to Him. I wanted in. I wanted God to be in my heart to listen to me. So my mom prayed in that red car with the loud windshield wipers for Jesus to come in my heart. I opened my eyes and I felt the same but I believe God has had His Hand on me for a long while.
My grandmother's prayers were much louder. She would openly admit she wasn't talking to herself, but to God. She knelt by her bed every night and prayed. She walked around her house singing hymns like "How Great Thou Art" and "Holy Holy Holy". She practiced the presence of God. I always felt like she had God around her, as odd as that is to type. She welcomed Him and delighted in Him being there. (And years later I know God is everywhere, but we are more aware by practicing His Presence.)
I began to memorize Bible verses in Sunday School. The first one was "The Lord is the lamp unto my feet the light to my path." I got a piece of gum and smacked that gum proud. I was told memorizing Scripture was very important and special. I learned that He made me special. The same Sunday School teacher who taught me passed many years ago. Small acts of sacrifice I will never forget.
We continued going to church and I learned to read the Bible and talk openly to God. I learned through the awkward teenage years that he was my Number One. Things might be otherwise, but He was strong, dependable and never changed. And this Bible I read became a Real Person. I learned the Words were Love Letters written to me. I was drawn to Him because He was Good.
I went to college and He just busted through my expectations of Himself. The nerd inside of me was so excited to be at a place where I could study anything I wanted. (I declared my major so many times that year that it got to be a joke.) I met dear precious friends those years I still keep in touch with. And although oceans divide us, God's love unites.
I met my husband, who is actually my second love. I learned in college that Jesus was my First. Any man I met would have to love Him too. So this precious man fit the bill and the mystery of this thing called marriage united with Jesus' grace is overwhelming.
So we have these two precious girls. The best thing I know to do for them is to share God with them. Wrap them up in His great love. To help connect them to their Savior. To help them not only see Jesus, but feel Him here with us. Do they see me meet with Him? Do they see me go to Him first when I am frustrated? Do they see me sing praises to Him? Do they see me blog and talk about Him, unashamedly? Do I say I'm sorry because I am confident in the forgiveness Jesus has granted us from the cross?
Do they see me fail? Am I representing who I am well? A mom in need of a Savior. A mom humbly and simply loving her Lord. A mom who is far from perfect but connected to the Perfect Man.
Years from now I have no idea what they might remember from these days. But, my prayer is that they recollect memories with a lens of Him.
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