staring alternately between the computer screen and a most glorious sunset.
the sky is pink. and purple. with bits of grey. and wispy clouds.
it was a gloomy stormy day. i woke up to the pitter patter of rain. made my way to mass. came home and stared at a dark. still sleeping house. dirty pots and pans littered the kitchen counter. plates were left on the table from dinner last nite. never cleared. because i was just too tired.
and i then i was mad. mad because things are always falling apart around here in one way or the other. it seems like i can’t turn my attention elsewhere for one second or chaos takes over.
you would never know that i had received Holy Communion just minutes earlier. it doesn’t take me that long to get home. what is wrong with me you might say. or maybe you feel this way too.
spiritual dryness perhaps?
or i am in need of a good cry?
the immense responsibility of homeschooling is a heavy, heavy burden.
but burdensome and beautiful. sweet and sour. agony and ecstasy.
so many contradictions, huh?
it is something i often have a hard time putting into words without someone misunderstanding me.
after all i chose this cross didn’t i?
well, sort of.
because there really was no other alternative.
the schools here are bad. in a very bad way.
and so this is the right thing to do.
“when your soul is crushed with sorrow, know that it is crowded with God. a man or woman without suffering of some kind would be like a world without Divine Revelation. they would know only the twilight of God, but see dimly His vestiges and know Him almost not at all.”
not my words. but oh so consoling.
i am crushed. sorrowful.
and yet i am constantly, albeit very gently reminded that it is ok.
there are still rainbows and sunsets. promises and hope.
i have not thrown the towel in yet.
i am still trying to get used to being in the passenger’s seat. in more ways than one.
as of today we officially have our first young driver here too. one more reason for me to forever remain sorrowful. and crushed.
but it’s all just part of this season.
this season of raising children. big and little.
an exhausting season wherein quite often i, weakly raise my hand…
still crushed and sorrowful.
and say “here i am….”
and i wait for HIM to pick me up.