the thing.

I am sick with anticipation and gratitude. In turn my heart pounds with fear and rests in gratitude for unspeakable blessings. This dichotomy renders me a little moody and in need of lots of grace from my sweet and stable husband.

I am not a master at handling the unknown or what is otherwise outside of my control. The illusion of control entices me like a fabulous pair of shoes I would know not how to wear. Should these shoes show up in my closet I would surely wear them with everything I own and ruin them post haste. I want control, but I recognize that it just isn't something that suits my wardrobe. Unfortunately.

"Dave, are you stressed out?" I ask him about the Thing that has caffeinated my nights and monopolized my thoughts. He shrugs, "It's going as we thought." He's sleeping well, I can tell. He's not eyeing shoes that can't be his. I am immediately furious at his calm and also soothed by it. "I guess." I can only mutter, furrowing my worried eyebrows back into place.

At once I am consumed with the Thing and I am growing in gratitude, patience, hope. I feel my chest intake a deeper breath and I feel my teeth close over my tongue when it wants to snap something unhelpful. I worry and I stress. I take in the beauty of my son's smile even when sick with the flu. Then I am distracted by anxiety. I inhale the scent of my daughter when she and her little-pink-blanks cuddle to me. I make hollow plans. I memorize the way my baby's eyebrows briefly lift when he catches my eye, mid-crawl-race and he smiles. I pace. I let my heart flood with gratitude for the consistent and unrelenting love of my husband. I worry. These moments are yoga; they are resting in an uncomfortable position and learning to embrace it.

You want to know what the Thing is. You are scanning the words until I get to some kind of big reveal. It doesn't matter here. You have a Thing too. There is something that could weigh you down so low that you can't see the majesty in your life. I think of the beautiful promise Jesus made, "Come to me, all you who are weary ... and I will give you rest." I can think of this and I can loosen my grip on elusive control. What I need more than certainty, really, is rest. I need calm. I need this moment now. I need teething and tantrums and phone calls and sweeping the floor again and rewashing laundry that sat in the washer too long. I need my life here and now. This beautiful, messy, sticky, unnerving gift is all mine. A fabulous pair of shoes would be much easier.