Getting Filled

We sat on the porch, the tall boy with his back to me. I was coming down with a terrible cold but the weather was warm and he was angry and so we just sat. Me staring out toward the street. Him, crumpled over in his chair, screaming with silence.

The young one played a few feet off, creating his own music of chatter while he blew bubbles and decorated plants with them.

I watched. Both of them.

It had been a hard week. A week filled with swings and misses. Too much homework, not enough sleep. Activities, events. Just too much for this tall boy. And not enough.

He had been grumpy for days–which was abnormal for him. He wore discontentment around all week and of course, showed it off spectacularly to the ones closest to him.

By Saturday he had had enough. I worried for him–is this who you are now? I wondered. So we sat there, not looking at one another and I knew in my heart I had to redeem this moment. I needed, for his sake and mine, to turn it around and bring him home.

I felt like I was trying to hold the ocean in my cracked, dripping hands. Too much. Not enough.

My initial words were met with silence but at least he stayed glued to his seat. I could tell he was listening.

Thank God for the silliness of the youngest. It was a nice backdrop, the loud voice and the delicate bubbles.

Then I started again, cautiously, with the easy stuff. This reminds me of the time…Does it remind you of that too? Do you remember when we went…? I remember how we laughed….Slowly, slowly, introducing him back into our family.

Holding tightly to the salt water in my hands. Losing less and less as the moments crept by.

Finally. Finally.

The moment came. He turned in his seat. Instead of his back, his profile. We both began watching the youngest send bubbles into the sky and we slowly began talking. Talking about things of little importance which then became the things of the utmost importance.

His favorite part of our town’s Lemonade Days. Soccer practice. Roasting marshmallows. The end of school countdown. Glorious summer.

As I sat in my seat, despite my feverish, aching body and the cough settling deep inside my chest, I felt relief. The week was disappearing as the sun was setting and my boy was getting filled up again in a quiet moment on our porch.


I silently thanked God for the redemption. And I looked down at my hands, cradled in my lap. I was never–he was never–meant to hold the ocean in them all alone. Sometimes we are meant to sit quietly, watch bubbles and just wait for them to be filled.

Loud Time with the Lord

Loud Time With the LordMy quiet time lately has been ridiculous. And by ridiculous, I mean, it’s been loud. It should be called “loud time” with the Lord. Loud, rambunctious, non-quiet quiet time….

[Blessed to be guest posting over at ChristianSuperMom today…click here to jump over]


photo credit: mikecogh via photopin cc

photo credit: mikecogh via photopin cc

I started thinking up hashtags at 2 am. Not a good sign.






This child was miserable. Compared to the other, he was miserable for much longer and many, many, many more times. Middle of the night rendezvous of this nature are never pleasant for anyone.

After the umpteenth time of consoling and comforting, cleaning and tucking, the little weak voice spoke out. Echoes of his brother.

“Thanks for taking care of me.” In the eye of the storm, these are the words that came out.


Of course. Of course, I think.

What is it about a stomach bug that brings out such meaningful statements and polite manners–especially in the dark, lonely hours of the night?

I’m seeing these moments of vulnerability, even in young, spent little bodies and tired spirits, that remind me of our great need to know that we are not alone in this life. We need to be cared for. We need to be comforted. We need more than what we ourselves can supply.

These verses are worn thin in my Bible, from hands that trace the words to remind myself of its truth:

You know when I sit and when I rise; you perceive my thoughts from afar. You discern my going out and my lying down; you are familiar with all my ways. . . . You hem me in–behind and before; you have laid your hand upon me. Such knowledge is too wonderful for me, too lofty for me to attain. Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence?. . .even the darkness will not be dark to you; the night will shine like the day, for darkness is as light to you. (Psalm 139: 2-3, 5-6, 12)

There’s beauty in knowing we cannot be anywhere where God cannot care for us. In our room, on the bathroom floor, on the couch, in the dark. Always there, shining like day–even at 2 o’clock in the morning.

Hidden under warm covers, the middle one now rests in the calm after his storm. He chooses to be out in the open while we go about our business of the day, preferring the sound of our voices and the mere knowledge that he isn’t alone. And he isn’t. Not even a little bit.