It's Not Me; It's Him

Last week my husband and I were making plans to spend Saturday meandering around the streets of Chesapeake City, looking at cars and antiques, having dinner with friends, and acting like two adults without a care in the world. We attended church and I took copious notes; I sat with my friends at Bible study on Thursday, wishing I didn't have to rush right home to Mom. Scott stayed up too late a couple of nights catching up on his favorite television shows, and I stressed over all I had to do throughout my days, wondering if I could manage to squeeze in a decent night's sleep for the sake of my health. On occasion we gave thought to the things we'd lost in the last few months and the extreme weather that had brought with it aching joints and lackluster summer crops. We wondered where the next few years would take us and when we could rest from our responsibilities long enough to enjoy one another.

In the space of two hours on Friday morning, our lives changed dramatically. Saturday was cancelled -- no meandering; dinner would be served by this house chef to a party of six, right at our ordinary kitchen table with the cracked laminate and worn wooden chairs. On Sunday, I quickly  dotted the back of my church bulletin with hieroglyphics as I balanced a Bible and a squirming two-year old; Thursday's Bible study this week has me plotting strategy like MacArthur. In the last six days, Scott and I have collectively logged less sleep than a Folgers taste-tester, and my list of things to do went straight into the garbage just below the dirty diapers. My health became a mere blip on the radar, and had to be -- still is -- turned over completely to the One who made me and knows better than I or any physician what my body requires. Lamented losses and perished produce faded into the past. The condescending laughter of last week's aches and pains could no longer be heard over the roar of this week's sore muscles and stiff joints. Sibling squabbles, evening tubbies, night terrors, car seats, toys underfoot and mounds of laundry replaced quiet moments... And then, there's Mom.

But I am learning something. I am merely a spectator, a disciple standing by and watching miracle after miracle unfold before me. What would, years ago, have been over-achievement wrought in fires of arrogance and bitterness is now total reliance on Jesus and a humble gratitude for what He will do. What would, years ago, have been perfectionism through gritted teeth and angry intolerance for those who weren't crazy enough to jump on my self-serving, overambitious bandwagon is now love and grace, and the knowledge that NOTHING actually accomplished in the midst of this "culture of chaos" is of my doing. The homemade tomato gravy, the "thank you" notes, and the bathroom that gets cleaned? Jesus. The dentist so willing to slash her prices to help a little girl? Jesus. The sacks -- yes, I said sacks! -- of toys that arrived in our home as early as Monday? Jesus. The vacant eyes that begin to show life and understanding? Jesus. The prayers of many that are felt at all hours of the day? Jesus. The smiles of strangers and the love and devotion of a faithful church family? Jesus. The little boy terrified of dogs that steals strokes of soft fur when no one is looking? Jesus. Healing and health and grace and mercy and joy and peace? Jesus. It's not me; it's not us. It's Him.