My beloved wife speaks...

I heave. Startled. Eyes burst, but the night’s dark still covers the room, like a sheet protecting it from dust, those bits of grit and earth and all signs of death and life that settle heavy on our surface. And in my eyes. Burning eyes.

I remember to breathe again. Funny that I could forget, the covers all drenched in sweat. And I remember, through dust in eyes and clammy skin, that I am awake. Dreams are such strange things, really, if they can be called ‘things’ at all. Reality in layers, in and out of time, hopes and fears become mind pictures, colors, flashes. Stories not bound to laws of nature. Finally, untethered, I have a moment, in sleep or not I don’t care much, to consider the invisible, to rearrange the stars, to awaken, terrified of the unthinkable or stare into the face of an unknown beauty… only to be thrust back into pillow next to clock. I despise that clock.

From the depths of me, something shouts, “Awake, O sleeper!” and here I am, eyes a little wider to let in even the smallest reflection of light. Three little bodies sleep silently. Thank goodness. Their chests rise and fall to a steady rhythm of grace…

Whatever grace is. I want to know. Not a definition, but a state of being I can somehow enter into, receive, drink so it becomes a part of me. I have been a grace thief lately, seeking beauty instead of pain, blurry-eyed I gasp, inhale, crumple to earth. Repeat. I’m looking for sanctuary in moments of awareness, those moments where the sun streams in and transforms the dish suds into domes of light, so full of brightness they wobble, about to burst, colors magnified like an entire rainbow full of the promise of life… All of this and the breakfast dishes, too.

I am seeking the fullest life that births out of the darkest emptiness. You know, THAT emptiness. My comrade in all my wandering. The thing (or lack of) that drives me to keep looking. And the looking always comes first. The looking before the finding. Like Moses, who "kept right on going because he kept his eyes on the one who is invisible." (Hebrews 11:27) I only recognize my places of emptiness after tasting God's fullness.

I am trying to practice looking at life differently. I notice, now that my camera has become an extension of my own two eyes, the significance of small details. Focus and click…Details. Little graces. The ones I miss in all my impatience. Like right now,  children arguing, nonsense songs piercing ears. Please! Just five quiet minutes! I guess grace isn’t quiet today. I sigh.  I’m looking for a sanctuary in a moment like the one when I actually take notice of the rainbows floating in the sink. Oh, did  I have you fooled into believing I am an ever graceful person who sees beauty in scrubbing the toilet, too?  Hardly. I wear my ungracefulness loudly in my tense shoulders and sharp words.  I can’t seem to hold onto the grace-filled moments long enough.  I live my life in those dream layers, in circles, discovering, entering into, forgetting and losing, finding my way round again to another layer, peeling it away, and then, startled awake (or back to sleep), it is gone. I empty of truth and need refilling. Another crumple to earth. 

I have ‘chronic soul amnesia’. I didn’t make that up. I’m reading a book called ‘One Thousand Gifts’ by Ann Voskamp and it is kicking my lazy, ungrateful butt. She named her disease and I have claimed it as my own. 

Hand to chest, pounding wildly. But the house is silent. I wonder if God is trying to get my attention.  I convince myself during the chaotic day that if I could just find time to be quiet before my Maker, I could maybe hear his voice. I didn’t really have the middle of the night in mind… but here I am.  Stars poking holes in the dark so the truth God painted in the galaxies can seep down in moonlight on my window pane.

Life comes out of the dark places. 

I feel like a wanderer. I know my husband, deep in sleep next to me, feels it. I am so thankful we’re on this journey together. I don’t deserve the love he gives me every day. There it is again- grace.  But now I feel it dripping down from the heavens in drops of beauty.  It soaks through to my soul and I sit in it. I’m painfully aware that I need to pay attention to the details during the day, when the kids are pulling at my leg and jumping off the kitchen counter and I want to pull out my hair. I miss too many moments, too many graces. And I resonate with a question in this book-  how long do I have to figure out how to live full of grace, full of joy, before my children fly the coop and these mothering days fold up quiet?

So I will focus, and click.

Because I cannot live in only those picturesque moments- I am no Walden recluse, or Alexander Supertramp- I am going back to those little bodies. Back to the world full of broken and suffering people, the world that is loud and busy and whirring round and round- orbits full, blurring. All these things lean hard into me all day. Me with chronic soul amnesia. Me who is too easily distracted from the fierce beauty that rages clear and powerful and loud as a thunderclap. 

I lay back down and close my eyes, thankful...for these moments...and all of the messy ones in between.