At a birthday celebration dinner the other day, Esmae pulled down a glass from the table, it hit the floor and shattered into a thousand tiny pieces causing the entire outdoor seating area to look at us and the man at the table next to us to grab Esmae to ensure she didn’t step on the glass.  Tonight as I was unloading the dishwasher, I smacked one of our glass Tupperware containers on the edge of the counter, and it shattered onto the clean dishes and onto the dirty kitchen floor.

Both times I froze, surprised by their fragility.  “How many times have a dropped something before and nothing happened?” I found myself thinking. Then I kind of snapped back to reality, thinking—”of course they broke—glass is strong, but hello!  It’s fragile!”

I’m going to take a step into murky waters, and believe that I’m not alone here:

Do you ever feel like you’re going along with your day, kicking some proverbial butt, and then all of a sudden, out of nowhere—you’re levelled?  You’re shattered, and more, you’re startled by it?  You feel like—“what in the literal heck just happened?”

“How did I get here to this heap of tears on the couch?” Or “How did I get so angry over something so little?” Or “Why can’t I move forward in this moment?  I’m literally paralyzed by my anxiety.” Or “Why am I so exhausted that I can’t take a single step more?” Or “When was it that I grew so lonely?” Or “How did my weight get so out of control?” Or “How did we drift so far apart?”

Today I had one of these moments.  I was in the car on the way to a friend’s house to babysit while her and her husband went out on a date, and I decided to roll down the windows and keep the music off.  I found myself singing songs whose lyrics are burned in my memory—“Be Thou My Vision” came pouring from my heart, and spilling from my eyes.

“Naught be all else to me, save that Thou art
Thou my best Thought, by day or by night
Waking or sleeping, Thy presence my light.”

When was it, exactly, that I befriended bitterness?  I felt a tightness in my chest grow, as I recounted some of the cold, rigid, harsh patterns I’ve subscribed to in parenting, in marriage.

As I’ve contemplated that question more while typing here, I think back to the first lyric in that heart-hymn from my car ride—“naught be all else to me, save that thou art”—means “don’t be anything to me except all that you truly are.”  I realize that perhaps I’ve begun to believe that God isn’t all that He says He is.  I’ve begun to believe that He won’t finish the work He has started in me.  I’ve begun to believe that He can’t truly rule in my heart.  I’ve begun to believe that He won’t lead me by the still waters if I run to my Shepherd.  I’ve begun to believe that His Spirit isn’t at work in me to make me holier.  I’ve begun to believe that Jesus didn’t pay it all on the cross—I’ve got to take care of these things on my own.

If He is sincerely my “best thought by day or by night,” why is it that in moments when bitterness creeps in—or frustration takes over—or the temptation to overeat greets me I’m not calling upon my Very Best Thought?  The One who reminds me that gratefulness is worship, that patience partly defines love and produces gentleness within me, that self-control is mine through Christ who crucified my over-indulgent impulses on the rugged cross.

I’m tired of settling for mediocre victory over sin.  Jesus cried “It is finished!” and so it is, my friends.  So it is.  Everyday, I long to allow Jesus to fill the empty spaces in me—pushing out the unwelcomed occupants, however small, of selfishness, entitlement, greed, disappointment, envy, guilt, impatience, anger, and the list goes on.

Sometimes I’m surprised my fragility.  I can go about my day feeling entirely filled with strength, when bitterness whispers in my ear one too many times, taking me out at the knees.  What is it for you that sneaks up on you, and takes the wind out of you?  What are you doing to take down the white flag of surrender?  How are you instead hoisting up the heavy cross of Calvary, claiming victory over and over again each time that whisper comes to appeal?

Today, I’m believing that “waking or sleeping, Thy presence [is] my light.”  He remains with me—I’m remembering from Hosea 10:12 that when I sow righteousness, I reap steadfast love.  And when I plow up the hard ground of my heart, He will come and rain more righteousness upon me.   Fighting the good fight is just that—a fight–but when won, we get more of Him illuminating His way in us, untangling the webs of lies, shepherding us to safety, and making home in our hearts more of His abiding love.  So today, I’m gripping tightly to the all-sufficient grace He promises us, and believing that tomorrow?  Tomorrow, as I anticipate my fragility, I can also anticipate that His power will rule in me all the more.

—Amen.