It is one of those mornings.
Where the toast burns and the milk spills and the baby is cutting teeth. The kitchen floor, scrubbed clean 2 days before looks as though it hasn’t been swept in a month. It is one of those mornings where life feels heavy and the enemy’s lies taunt and tease- “you will always be cleaning but things will never be clean.” The 3 year-old who has just eaten his way through cereal, toast, raisins, milk and orange juice is “hungry, mommy, staaaarving!!” The teething baby wants to be held, soothed, nursed. He is crying, grasping, desperate.
I do the only thing I know to do in broken moments. I sit down in the middle of the kitchen floor, right there with the toast crumbs and the sticky residue of the milk that has yet to be properly cleaned. I put my head in my hands, breathe deep and then reach for my boys:
“Let’s pray to Jesus. Will you help me ask Jesus to help mommy be a good and strong mommy?”
Baby is thrilled that I am down low enough to grasps; he climbs into my lap and wraps his arms tight around my neck, gumming my shoulder with sore teeth. My big boy wraps his hands around mine, clasped together, and bows his sweet head and my heart lurches to my throat at the site of his beautiful faith.
We pray together, the three of us, right there in the mess of it all. We pray with a hungry faith that silences lies.
Hear me, dear mother with the messy floors and unwashed hair and laundry piles overflowing: God can use even those messes to save. I pray my boys will grow and have the memory of a mother who wasn’t defeated by the messes because she walked right into them to lay her heart out before an almighty God.
Hear my cry, O God,
listen to my prayer;
from the end of the earth I call to you
when my heart is faint.
Lead me to the rock
that is higher than I.