Monday, March 16, 2009

Tunnel Vision

Sometimes we mama's get a little tunnel vision... life presses close, minutes are crammed with so many "have-to's"... but it's okay. He meets us where we are...


Fog slips away, burned off by the fresh air coming in the windows and doors flung wide.

Medicines are stocked in cupboards, blankets and rags washed and folded, and noses wiped for the last time.

Children test their legs, starting with a slow, tentative walk and quickly changing to a run as they shout joyfully in their newfound strength.

Sickness flees our home.

And husband prepares for deprivation of another kind.


Lunch on Friday is a hearty casserole. We gather close around the table, sharing our last meal together before begins the 30-hour fast he will lead with the teenagers of our congregation. Prayers as a family begin to turn minds toward the sadness faced by so many.

And I regret. Did I really say I faced difficult choices? How tunnel-like is my vision…

For truly, my choosing is always optional. If I choose to, I will cook for my family today from a refrigerator fully stocked for breakfast… lunch… dinner… snacks.

If I choose to, I will read to my little ones, rather than rest my eyes.

If I choose to, I will be imaginative and joyful for their sake.

If I choose to, I will pursue bettering my mothering, my homemaking, my partnering with husband. My faith.

If I choose to, I will just… keep going.

How pitiful my complaints seem now, in light of the frightening statistics posted on the walls of our church building this Sunday past. 26,000 children under the age of five die every day… [That’s one in twelve.]

I look at their faces, drawn and blank. Hunger has pressed them beyond knowing.

Gideon’s dry scalp that cries out for coconut oil on a daily basis is my most pressing concern. I don’t slap flies away from his nose and eyes.

In Uganda, a mother will walk ten miles each day to find water for her family. I tap the faucet handle and water - clean water - flows freely from the spigot.

I walk the church halls, holding Eliana’s hand tighter, pressing my Gideon closer to my chest; eyes are tempted to close against the pain I read there on those walls, but I keep them open.

Forgive my complaints, Father. And thank you, for meeting me where I am. For gently prodding me to dive deeper, examine closer.

Let us continue to take back our days and nights. But now...

...consider expanding your vision with me?

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