Thursday, March 10, 2011

Bigger Picture Moments: Broken Record

I feel like a broken record.

A continual megaphone announcing that spring cannot come soon enough, that patience cannot be heaped onto our plates in large enough portions to adequetely nourish mine and the boys' bodies, minds.

Whereas they cannot stand to be cooped up in the house for another sunny but cold afternoon, I cannot stand to be the keeper of the door to the free world.

We've scuried out the door, dove into the cold. Inhaled gulps of frigid air, noses dripping, eyes stinging.

We've sigh defeat after about 30 minutes, still craving life beyond the four walls of our home.

We've reentered, soaked into the sofa, stared longingly at blue skies, streaky sun that promise spring will come ... not today, but soon.

Fallen into pits of discouragement and the mundane and the humanly unchangeable and snappy reactions and stressful moments.

I am a broken record.

Singing on and on.

And on.

And. On.

But maybe I need to feel broken.

Because sonship was established in the wilderness, not the promised land.

Reliance and trust, patience and gratitude were all products of wandering in the desert for 40 years.

And March in Chicagoland and impatience in motherhood and compounding situational stresses and swallowing hard truths all sure feel like the middle of the desert to me.

It is here, though, that I find manna every morning appearing out of nowhere, sustenance from a loving Hand.

It is here that I make grasps at gratitude and see that Mighty Hand busy at work -- stirring in the early spring soil, stirring in the Word, stirring in my soul.

It is here that sonship becomes reality.

My reality.

Simple BPM

Every Thursday we share the harvest of living intentionally by capturing the bigger picture through simple moments.

We welcome your voice, your experiences, your captures-- however big or small.

Sarah is hosting our link up this week. Hope you'll join in.

This is also linked with Michelle's Thought-Provoking Thursday at Some Girls Website.

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