The little pink porcelain cross hung over her cradle. Strength it read. For me, more than her. I kept it in her keepsake box and rubbed it like a talisman more than once last year when all the unknowns piled up because of her little brain and inside my sleepless one.
She broke that cross the other day.
Now it sits in a corner of my kitchen counter, waiting for superglue or hot glue or some other miracle.
Last week Joshua repaired three broken toys and a decorative teapot Annabelle got at a yard sale.
And I’ve told you all about my peeling paint van that often needs more repairs than there are digits in the emergency fund.
Yesterday the little man tried to be helpful. He climbed onto the open dishwasher to unload the cups for his whiny sister and strung-out mama. Never mind that I have said DO NOT CLIMB IN THE DISHWASHER a ridiculous amount of times since he became mobile nearly three years ago.
He fell and used the top rack to break his fall.
So, yeah, my life is pretty much full of brokenness.
I had a friend tell me this week that–
brokenness can be beautiful because it’s in the fall our need for Jesus is most magnified.
And oh, how I need.
My husband traveled this week. Not a big deal, I know. He’s home more than he’s gone and when he’s here, he’s all in. For that I’m grateful.
But sometimes the timing of his trips and the timing of my sanity just don’t match up.
He got the sobbing-don’t-ever-leave-me-and-don’t-ask-me-to-manage-the-budget-and-these-kids-are-too-much phone call yesterday while he was at the LAX airport.
In my defense, the threat of snow had closed school two hours early and I don’t know about yours, but for my kids, transitions are the hardest part of everyday. If I ever homeschool one reason will be because we get along better with less transitions.
This introduction of the girls into the space that is not usually theirs and was already full with my to-do list and my thought that if they were home they could at least do their chores, made for a harder than needed to be afternoon.
The dishwasher incident broke me.
And I cried in the closet and my eleven year old tried comforting me and said (this is wisdom, really), “Having a conversation with you is like that conversation I just read with Gale and Katniss. You know? When he gets mad at her because he thinks they’re running away together and she thinks they should save Peeta’s family too?”
Well, the night before they had tried reading Bible stories with me, so I guess she figured Hunger Games might work too.
It kind of did.
See, Katniss and Gale fought because they had different expectations.
And my expectations are not at all the same as my children’s.
They expect some attention, and a little freedom to turn flips on the trampoline, and a snack, of course.
I expect them to be excellent readers because I was a reading teacher (and I love reading). I expect them to not only help, but to do so cheerfully, without complaining ever (apparently I’m the only one allowed to complain). I expect them to get along and love each other and listen to me all the time.
I think I forgot they are children. And they are broken and sinful and selfish.
Just. Like. Me.
They are also imaginative and compassionate and patient with their crazy mama. They are loving and kind and generous. But, they do not always meet my expectations.
I wonder if I meet God’s?
I think, yes. I think He doesn’t expect anything more of me than to come, broken, kneeling in my closet, weeping, begging for a little calmer heart.
He expects me to let Him handle this.
He’s my glue miracle. And he’s in the business of repairing the broken.