Today, "Week 1, Day 3" said: As I wait on the Lord, with good courage, He shall strengthen my heart.
No fireworks went off as I unfolded this little missive. Words familiar to my head, but I wanted them to move my heart. The paper remained on the counter to bring awareness all through the day. It got pushed around and splattered, almost lost among the detritus of the day's productivity. I was reminded when I wiped and wiped and wiped again.
Wait on the Lord. The very word "wait" in the original language means "look eagerly for, hope, expect". There was no doubt that a moment would come in which my heart would need strengthening.
School went extraordinarily well this morning. Math was accomplished with good attitudes before 9 a.m.! (A record, I'm sure.) I wiped lunchtime crumbs around the scrap of paper and thought it would be lovely to have a day wherein such a promise wasn't desperately required.
Oh, but it came. Four-thirty p.m. is my nemesis!
Hardly matters how short the night, seven a.m. is a beautiful time of day to me. I'm fresh! I'm alive! I'm a firecracker! Bring. It. On. But late afternoon...oh, how I loathe thee! It's like someone has poured concrete in the space belonging to my brain. Kids get rambunctious. I need to think of what to make for supper (again). Listen with my whole heart to the one who's been gone to school all day. I just want to lie down and close my eyes for twenty minutes. I've heard that this is how some feel at 7 a.m. which has made me a little more compassionate for those who do not share my morning joy.
He shall strengthen my heart. Except at 5 p.m.?
Funny how much more readily I believe my feelings than the Promise. Was I "looking eagerly for, hoping or expecting"? Nope. The habit of my soul has taught me to clench my teeth and deal with it.
Shuffling aside the paper scrap as I assembled supper ingredients, I took a deep breath and stopped to "expect" strength. This involved stopping the brain track that was shrieking, "I wish...."
Strength seeped into my soul. Not a tidal wave, but a quiet. Grace for the moment.
The promise is real.
This post is part of a series Love in a Box.