Bridge-Building Self-Care: Surrender

Julian and I are up early, yet again, and I think, "I'm going to try to take some quiet breaths and calm my heart while he plays beside me."  I am desperate for self-care, for soul-care these days.  He sleeps like a newborn still, and the never-ending fatigue has caused an inability to recall needed words or information, a lack of clarity in my thinking, a lower threshold for freaking out.  We have regular battles of the will going on in this house to the point where my blood pressure threatens to make my eyes pop out, and the sibling rivalry makes me want to tattoo "It isn't a competition!" on my forehead to give my mouth a break.  Last night, Julian didn't separate from me until 11 pm, which meant that until midnight I was getting the spaghetti-crusted dishes clean, picking up hardened pasta from the floor.  And with the necessities barely happening, I certainly have not been able to do those things that are deeper, like call my grandparents, write our Compassion kids, encourage my friends.

I know that I need the peace like a river, the kind from Jesus that surpasses understanding and sleep deprivation and my human nature that roars in all its ugliness.  So instead of trying to stay in a semi-sleeping state while keeping Julian playing somewhat quietly in the playroom, I decide to go to the river of God.  And Julian decides to take advantage of the moment to find and dump out a full bubble container.

But in that moment, with towels soaking up sticky soap, a familiar phrase comes to my sluggish mind:

"My heart and flesh may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever." Psalm 73:26

And I remember the card from a friend that said how these children stretch us and show us our need for God, and instead of sighing loudly (as tends to be my normal response), I surprise myself by taking a deep breath and letting it out in surrender.  My heart and flesh may fail, but God is the strength of my heart NOW, and my portion FOREVER.