The Era of My Life

Ticktock goes my life,

and  I worry in syncopation,

“This?”

“That?”

“Now?”

“When?”

“Here?”

“There?”

“Yes?”

“No?”

The moments turn into hours

and the clock continues on in blissful infinity.

But I question my allotment,

as if I have any control over a period, let alone an eternity.

I rush and rant;

looking forward and then looking back while I miss this moment completely.

And the clock on the wall silently nods.


 

RDS (c) April 20, 2020

Casting All Your Cares

I have often dropped to my knees to ask, “Why?” I have poured out my heart pleading with God to change the outcome, fix the problem, correct the other person, make the pain go away. I am a child begging my daddy to fix the boo-boo!

But sometimes I am quite comfortable with my spiritual infancy and I know my Father in Heaven does not think that’s a bad thing. We are told often in scriptures of His concern for us.  He tells us to, “Cast all your anxiety on Him because He cares for you,” and that, “As a father has compassion on his children, so the Lord has compassion on those who fear Him.”

However, over time I have learned that it helps if I approach every heartache prayer with a different agenda.  If I ask, not that God change the outcome that He already, in perfect wisdom, thoroughly understands but that He intervene in my own limited perception and inability to process, my relationship with God changes dramatically. I stop treating every situation as another example of God’s lack of concern for me personally and, instead, I see Him for the Father and loving partner that He is!

Acknowledging my Father’s ability to see a future I can never dream of, the heart of someone I will never know, the direction of both my bad choices and my good, or the perfectness of something I can’t fathom as acceptable is the first step in my infancy and in my spiritual adulthood. Only by acknowledging his divinity will I be able to stop crying out, “God, why don’t you care about what’s happening?”

Instead I can say, “Father, help me to see your hand in this and deal appropriately with it.  Help me to know what to pray for!”

 

Scriptures used:

1 Peter 5:7 , Psalm 103:13

Photo by Timur Romanov on Unsplash

When Did I become a Loser?

I’ve never been one of those majorly popular girls but I did get chosen for the Homecoming Junior class princess in High School. I had a few really awesome close friends and a large group of kids I felt were good acquaintances back then. Once I got married I made friends pretty easily at church, with my children’s parents and with those I met at school functions. I’ve never really suffered from terribly low self-esteem even though I know my limitations, both physically and socially. At least until my two youngest girls became young adults.

What is up with the whole eye-rolling thing anyway? Why is it that anything I say now is either socially inept, boring, or only marginally factual? At what point did I get foot-in-mouth and OMG-Mom disease without knowing I even had the symptoms? Is it contagious? Did I get it from my own mother? Will it ever go away? Does it have any direct relation to my sudden realization that I’m suddenly gross sexually, can’t be trusted with secrets and can’t pull off anything that remotely hints at cleavage anymore?

I’m not in the least bit concerned that my own mom says things like “that’s cool” as she hits 78 but I remember being slightly embarrassed by it when she was 38 so I’m assuming this is their problem and not mine. Still I do find myself teary after a tongue-lashing of “Puh…leazzz…mom” and “Do you always have to talk for me?” (I talk for everyone, why should they be any different?) I try to chalk it up to peri-menopause but it’s really just a realization that I’m that loser mom that all teens create at some point in their lives.
The younger of these two girls turns 22 soon. Thank God my oldest is now 37. She’s no longer seeing me this way (as often) and is experiencing her own grief-stricken rejection as she kisses her boys in public. I wonder how my mother ever put up with us growing up.

Recently I bemoaned the fact to my mother that I couldn’t believe I had a child who was 37. She said, “You know what’s worse than having a daughter that’s 37?”
“No, Mom. What?”
“…Being the mother of a daughter who has a child that’s 37.”

Got me there.

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