It's days like today when it snows in early November, I look out the window and think to myself
I'm not so sure I'm cut out for this.
Afternoons like this very one when my youngest takes a spill off a stool
in the kitchen and summersaults himself stunned onto his back. I scoop him up and carry him to the chair where he cries about an
ouchie on his leg, and I'm simultaneously rocking him
and talking myself down off the ledge that wants me to jump headfirst into catscan
when I think I'm not cut out for this.
Days like yesterday when my oldest defiantly stomps out the door
and promptly steps on a nail that goes through his shoe, piercing his skin.
I'm hugging his shoulders and helping him limp to the couch
thoughts running crazy in my head of last vaccination and tetanus
and he's already propped his foot up and asking what's for dinner
when I wonder to myself
about how I'm not quite convinced I'm cut out for this.
When I'm whispering words of encouragement to trembling hearts
while my own is just as shaky
and I'm holding down the fort as day meets dusk
and praying hard and hallowed prayers of Thy will be done
but please, too, protect my own soft heart
when I realize that life and living
requires a toughness I just don't have,
and I'm certainly sure I'm not cut out for this.
None of it.
I'm cradling a ceramic mug
and watching pieces of my heart run through fresh snow
as I try to sip strength from the Words written across thin pages
and the cup in my hands.
"Yet you, Lord, are our Father. We are the clay, you are the potter; we are all the work of your hand."
I breathe softly and fully out
and accept the reminder
that every bit of refining fire
makes the clay stronger
I'm right when I say I'm not cut out for this
because rather instead I've been carefully molded
and strengthened flame by flame.