Sleeping with Bread: the Caffeine-challenged Version

I sit and stare at the Sleeping with Bread questions.

I've got a little caffeine high going and it is hard to stop. Breathe. Reflect.

WheinsteaditfeelslikemyinsidesaregoingamillionmilesaminuteandIdon'tevenknowwhatitmeanstobreathe.

Slowly though, one thought bubbles up inside.

What caused a sense of desolation for me this week was money: the lack of, the overspending of, the years-long struggle to be a wise, disciplined steward of the generousness of God. A struggle which feels more like the proverbial "one step forward, two steps back" than the "slow and steady wins the race" turtle-like determination.

Sigh.

I breathe. Yes. That is a true desolation for me this week.

Another thought drifts to the surface, frees itself and pops.

What has give me great consolation this week is my children. The ones I complain about constantly. The ones I refer to as Wild Thing One and Wild Thing Two. The ones who wear me down, sometimes with the drip, drip, drip of the Chinese water torture, sometimes with the rushing torrent of a flash flood.

God help me, I love those kids.

My daughter has had lots of hugs for me lately. On Saturday, she kept climbing into my lap while we were at a friend's house. I asked her why I was getting all these hugs. She shrugged her shoulders, leaned in for some more cuddling and then said, "Because you bought me a hamster." She is in the midst of developmental and physical change right now. I look at her and her face looks different. Her words are different. She is really too big for me to carry, although sometimes I will lean over, put my hands under her arms, say "One, two, three!" so she will jump up at the same time I lift her up. By doing so I get enjoy--for the minute or so I can manage to carry her--her arms being wrapped around my neck, her legs around my body.

My son, as much as he resists being labeled, is in some ways the stereotypical teen. But he is so much more than that also. I forget sometimes how self-sufficient he is. I forget that if I stop and take time to explain what I am feeling, or to apologize for my rantings, he is gracious with me. He has long been a kid who wants his own space and is very adamant that his mother not touch him. I sneaked in back pats and hair rubs and sideways hugs for as long as I could. No more. I miss being able to express my love for him physically. But I know that it is more loving for me to respect his wishes in this area than to force it on him. So, I soak in his smiles, enjoy our shared interests in certain television shows and movies and remember the days when he was small enough to be held, his head resting just under my chin.


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Other Sleeping with Bread posts can be found here.