Sometimes You Just Have to Throw It Down

I wanted to throw it down that pen.

To give it up.

To curl up with shame and sadness and just mourn over past mistakes and choices.

They haunt you even though you know your Savior walks with your hand in his. 

They still linger over you, the rotten scent of pasts and you cry out and pray, beg, for a change and when it comes the answer is not what you wanted to hear.

Its a fence, a dark fence that if allowed could shut out all that is the soul keeping its captive reclused by fear, worry, and self doubt.

And so I can throw it in, give up, soak in the criticisms, drown in the pasts, or I can draw close and believe that He is present and He hears and He knows the heart, the soul.

I had to choose.

I could grow angry, remorseful, and weep over circumstances which I did, or I could try and live the days and not let them just past and fade away, mundanely.

I felt like I had been doing it before this trying to grasp the minutes of the day, the looks on sweet faces, the laughter, and the memories. It can drive you crazy this desire to hold on to what will be forgotten in months and years ahead.

And it all brings me back to THE resting place and the fact that I can't change past choices even though I wish I could even though I prayed I could, that He would and He will because I believe.

Drawing closer, is a way of realizing the depth of our need for someone outside this world, someone who gives grace and mercy and loves us like an only child, who will never let this soul and heart down.

So I put away the pen and the past few weeks have been a whirlwind of recitals, field trips, discoveries, vacations, relaxing, lessons, and a sense of  peace when it comes to myself.

And sometimes you just have to put it down.

Those things that ring "you."

That bring enjoyment and a certain since of fulfillment, drop, toss aside and be "okay" with it.

Why? Because its called sacrifice and by sacrificing its the laying down of oneself  to see, to rest, to enjoy. 

Harvest the early mornings snuggled next to little bodies, the busy days of markers and paper and paints and lunches, and afternoons of books, pool trips, and evenings of sloppy joes and ice cream and long warm walks.

In the end you see yourself, you find the idea, you find His presence, His joy in His creations.

To soak in what was meant without having to be heard.

Because you ARE heard by the One and the ones who loves you the most.

And I drop the pen because I hear.

Early, I hear the creak of the door and see the little body stumble with morning legs, and messy hair, in sleepy sea side pajamas and I rush and pick his little body up, hold him close, kiss his swollen cheek, as he whispers, "Mom......books?"

Yes, this is the sacrifice.

I will gladly give away mine for his. 

And so I will take up this pen for His and for them and see, see where it leads but only during time that's not beckoned by the presence of a little hand in mine.

Because I can drop the pen.

But I never want to let go, ever, to drop the hands, those little hands that need a sacrifice.