This is All I Have to Give and Its At The End of the Rope

Yes, I'm at the end of the rope. 

That long, braided mass of brown fibers that I hold onto and tug and stretch and yank day after day and it scratches and burns and so I let go. Opening my worn hand, for good, its gone. 

I see it and feel it as it waves goodbye showing itself wildly dangling and flapping in the wind as if to entice me back into its reach. It wants to be chased.

Do I reach for it? Do I want it back? That rope. Do I give it another shot, another try? Wrestle with it and the mind and body grows weary yet this need to know could I have? Could I have done it better? Made it work? Fixed it? Believed enough? Been that someone?

Sometimes yes and sometimes no and it will be missed.

It soared away and out of me, leaving behind a tug at the heart, a willingness to finally lose control of what can't be controlled. 

Giving it all I have to give I couldn't get it back now. 

Watching sometimes there's regret for who am I? Who are we?

All we have to give is what we've been given. 

Does anyone really want it anyways? All I have to give. Its 10:30pm and the pot still soaks in the drain that big pot that held dinner for four and that I wish would be easier to scrub the longer it sat but it wouldn't be. 

The sweep of the night with broom in hand as broken chips, leftover cheerios, and blueberries are swept into a pile mingled with dust and dirt from happy feet and theres little legos that are carefully picked out and placed away. 
Exhaustion shows herself and I can't remember where I laid the brooms pan and spend extra precious glances from tired eyes to find it. 

Basket in tow, laundry is finally being done and the machine comes alive and I continue to clean, pay bills, and toss away trash and wash and write. 

Soon the lock on the door will turn and the carpenter will come home his hands soiled and splinted and wish to talk the talk of tired mouths to which more than too often mine remains closed. 

Morning hours comes and my tired legs finally head off to bed and before this body can feel rested the alarm goes off for an early morning walk and I think about me and Him and life and wishes and unfilled dreams and unexplained expectations of those close. 

Its easy to feel like a failure, like you haven't given it your all, when there's no silver plaque adorning the wall, no rolled white paper with red ribbon, no golden silhouette, nothing to show that's tangible that's so highly placed as above the worth of the heart and soul. 

Don't  believe the belief you have given it your all and that it runs dry or its worthless because giving never stops and its love that gives. 

We just may not know how much we do give and not everyone sees all the giving those little moments that mean big in His eyes and that drops a shining stone into an awaiting crown that's not sealed with a red ribbon or plaque but with eternity.

Just because it hasn't been seen or may not be done doesn't mean it should have been or couldn't have been. 

All we have to give is what we have been given and we have been given the greatest gifts of love and Spirit. 

His Spirit that lives and breaths in us that fades from mind too often and which I tend to forget, this powerful, resurrecting Spirit that speaks life and and truths and hope and salvations eternity.

Give a testament a testament to Him no matter the circumstances though life is hard and can crush and bruise the soul  it can still give Spirit. Turn cheek and give love that keeps renewing, strengthening, testing, encouraging. Commandment love.

Give the commandment love that commands to be given in homes and across seas and green and desert and it never stops and fills hearts and souls and spirits, its fathomless and knows no boundaries, selfless.

The joy He is, is Love. 

The Hope He is, is Love. 

The Promise He is, is Love. 

The Freedom He is, is Love.

All we have to give is what He has made us to be, Him in His own image.

And its fibers fly, woven, braided and faded and it soars away and I let it fly this rope that's tangled and tucked and yanked for some things are meant to be let go and given away to find the true Giver who gives chances and grace and mercies and salvation. 

Who wipes away every tear. 

The love of the Giver is He always gives and there is another and always another and its grabbed, that woven fiber, in this tired, worn hand and "in His time" He works all things beautiful.


**This is part of the Proverbs 31 bloghop for the online book study by Lysa TerKeurst "Am I Messing My Kids Up," a wonderful read.**