A Year of Fire

This last year has been one of learning patience. trust. waiting.  Not as much unanswered prayers as... prayers answered in a different way than I would have liked.  It has been challenging at times.
But, oh, I wouldn't change it for a thing.
This God of ours, He loves us.  He has provided faithfully and in unexpected ways.  His Holy Spirit has been lovely and nearly palpable to me.  I have felt utterly dependent on Him, and honestly, as hard as it has been, I would stay in this state of transition and uncertainty forever if He wills it.
Because, you see, I'm learning that there is no uncertainty for those of us whose hope is in the Lord.  He's already said He will take care of us, provide for us.   And more than anything, I've learned that He will give us this day our daily bread.  His provision is every. day. And I trust him anew every. day.
I was driving along, unexpectedly alone for a bit, going to meet my husband who had my children with him.  I was listening to music, with the windows down, and I suddenly felt young again.  Now, I know I'm only 31, I'm not that old, but let's face it - I'm not exactly a youngin anymore.  But driving along, wind whipping my hair around, I had the overwhelming sense that the Holy Spirit was telling me that I am still His little girl.  Just because I have a family of my own, doesn't mean I am any less His daughter, and that He will take care of me, as any good father would.
You see, He's teaching me.  And He told me He's teaching me, through this year of fire, because I am worth refining.  And I'd like nothing more than for Him to continue to teach me, be it through trials or blessings, for the rest of my life.
I was a young woman, basking in her Father's love, reveling in the knowledge that He's refining me.  And I'll take that fire any day, if I can keep learning from Him.

What I Learned in the Silence

Bedtime is a culmination of cuddles and affection, of stalling and impatience.  Children suddenly have countless stories to tell, questions to ask and strange requests.  Anything to prolong this process.  Usually Ben and I are quite eager to meet our self-imposed deadline, that magic hour of 8 o'clock, ensuring that these precious little minds are at optimal strength for the next day.  How else will they come up with creative new stalling techniques tomorrow night?
We rush around reading stories, getting jammies on, having last-minute-before-bed-but-before-teeth-brushing snacks, going potty and brushing teeth.  Usually we tag team and we switch off who we put down.  Many nights Layla requests that I put her to sleep, which is usually not too long of a process.  I have a list of must-do's that I check off: prayer, cuddle, sometimes a story, song aaaand... I'm out.  Usually I'm very aware of how long I'm in there.  Usually I have an agenda, all to get me out to the adult land of freedom known as "After Bedtime."  Usually I'm all business.
Not to say that bedtime isn't a very sweet affair.  Layla is affectionate and sweet, silly and endearing.  She usually sings with me in her soft innocent voice as I croon "Baby Mine" or "You are my Sunshine" into the darkness.  She tells me she loves me and puts her arm around my neck.  The hardest of hearts could not resist her sweetness.
But, the agenda still lies in the back of my mind, and the minutes tick down to my freedom.  As I ease out of the bed, there are inevitably requests for one more song, a drink of water, to lay with her a bit longer.  Usually I give in, enough to avoid a conflict, but not too much to push my long-awaited break much further off.  I'm certain the impatience seeps through the affection.  And yet, I slip out before another request can be made, and the light of the hallway congratulates me on my successful emergence into "After Bedtime."
However, the other night bedtime looked a little different.  Oh, it started out the same- book, jammies, teeth brushing.  But as I turned out the light and climbed into bed next to my sweet girl, I started to ask her what song she wanted me to sing, and she cut me off saying, "Just no talking tonight, Mama."  I was a bit taken aback and said, "Okay, girlie."  And we just lay there together in the darkness.  And as I let go of my agenda, I relaxed into the relationship.  The just being together.  It was a peaceful and precious time of just being with my daughter, and that was enough for her.  It was all she wanted.
In that quiet darkness, I was struck with the parallel to my relationship with God.  How I usually have an agenda, something or somewhere I'm eager to get.  And how, like my little girl, what my Father wants is simply to be with me.  I don't have to perform, to do.  Who I am is enough, and sometimes all He wants is for me to be still.