I’m Sorry Momma

I’m sorry Momma.

I’m sorry that it took so long to figure it out. To see it. To understand. To get it.

I’m sorry that I savored every moment with Daddy, but neglected you.

I’m sorry that I caused arguments and tossed around my attitude ruthlessly.

I’m sorry that I never realized what you gave up.

When you took the role of a “working mom”, depending on Daddy to be the one to meet us everyday after school, you gave up so much. I’m sorry that in choosing to help provide us the very best life, Daddy gave up his nights and you gave up the afternoons with us.

I’m sorry that I didn’t acknowledge that, every night, you came home from 8 hours of working with all sorts of people and fixed dinner for us. I’m sorry that sometimes after working those 8 hours you had to stop at the store, or take us to the dentist or take care of another family member. I’m sorry that I never realized that you sacrificed so much.

I’m sorry that I thought I aggravated you in the kitchen, when in reality, you were just a well oiled machine, fixing dinner so that Daddy and the rest of us could eat and get into bed.

I’m sorry that I never considered us close, even though you often knew me better than I knew myself.

I’m sorry that I didn’t know that you spent time on your knees for me. That you spoke blessings over me. That you believed in me when no one else did. Because those were done in the quiet, in YOUR time. In YOUR way.

I’m sorry that the word “over-protective” came out of my mouth more than “thank you”. I’m sorry I didn’t see that you were loving me into one more day, and shying me away from danger.

I’m sorry that I took offense when you would say “Get up and just do it.” I thought you were pushing me too hard, when in reality you were saying “You are a strong woman. You can do it. Go for it!’

I’m sorry, Momma.

And for the record, you rock.

I love you . . .

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Dear Momma,

This week I saw a movie and I questioned what my kids thought about me as a mom. My situation isn’t completely like yours and Daddy’s, but it’s close. My eyes welled with tears, and my heart ached. I love my babies like crazy, but I miss out on so much it seems. It’s not because I WANT to, it’s just life. The parallel of our lives is insane and made me see how wrong my thinking of our relationship was. I just want you to know, I think you are amazing. You worked full time, raised 4 kids, lots of dogs, and even some best friends. You worked all day and came home only to work more. You never had a day off. Saturdays we cleaned and cooked. Sunday was church. Monday it started all over. I admire you and your tenacity and I only pray that I can be half the woman you are. I love you!

Your Oldest Daughter,

Jennifer

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The Pianist

So it begins. The day has been long, this whole life journey has been long. I find it hard to speak positive words, hard to pray, hard to be joyful. I have read James today, I have whispered earnest prayers, I have read others encouraging words, searching for some kind of direction – some kind of peace.

As I sit with others, listening to requests, sickness, death and discouragement seem to be running rampant. Others who live life day by day, hour by hour, they are struggling as well. Our heads bow, each person different but each heart yearning for the same thing.

So it begins. Slowly, quietly, the fingers seem to barely tap the keys. It is not a familiar tune, no, it is from the heart. Prayer begins, words flowing with the melody. As the words begin to pierce through the darkness of our days, the chords pierce through my heart. As hard as I have found it to pray, to speak these truths, the music alleviates the pressure that holds them down. The pace picks up, the keys are played more fervently. The words seem to just spew out. The freedom begins to rain down.

Yes, it has begun. Often I find myself in these moments. These hard moments where my words seem meaningless, if I can even get them out. Then, the piano begins. I could stand and listen to the anointed melody, I could stand and just let the chords wash away the pain, the confusion, the doubt. Even though there are no words, it is the ebb and flow that draws me in. Her fingers seem to pray as they play, each measure a petition. There are measures of praise, measures of mourning, measures of worship, measures of adoration. Her voice never speaks, but her fingers do. In her playing, the release comes.

My son, Zeb, once suggested that worship was like learning to play football. He had struggled his first year, trying to learn what to do, trying to learn that being aggressive was okay. I asked him one day, quite randomly, what worship was. He said worship was different for everyone. Some people like it fast, some like it slow. Some people like newer stuff, and others like the older songs. But, his next comment was what stopped me in my tracks. “You know mom, it’s like when you’re learning to play football. You can know what you’re supposed to do, but you have to feel it and then you just do it.”

Such wise words. Sometimes it takes feeling it instead of talking it. It’s our actions that speak, that move, that minister. When I stand, surrendered, listening to the pianist pray with her hands, I find myself lost in Him.

The Farmer and Me

The soil was hard and cold. Rocks were scattered everywhere. It was a worthless field.

It had to be plowed. The earth needed to be turned so the seed could be planted so the harvest could be plentiful.

A horse, harnessed to the plow, begins to pull. Nothing but lines drawn in the dust happens. The ground. The ground is too cold. To rocky. It will never happen.

On and on the horse pulls, still, the plow refuses to do more than kick up dust. It must be done. Giving up is not an option.

A cold, steady rain begins.

Adding misery to the process. The time has come to give up. How can one press on? Is it not too much? The soil is too hard, the rocks are too many, the air is too cold, and now, rain. Bloody from the hard work, worn, and tired – is it even worth it? Is the possible harvest worth it?

Then, the plow sinks into the mud. The blades easily turn the soil, revealing the richness underneath. How easy is it now? The work is still hard, but the farmer and the horse are no longer feeling the full pressure of the plow; the once hard, cold, rocky ground is feeling the steel cut through it. Hope arises. Hope settles. Joy abounds.

In our life, there are fields to be plowed. We may have the greatest horse, the best plow, and the strongest body, but our field may not be the best. It may be hard, cold and rocky. Others may laugh at the possibility of a harvest. As we begin, we may get worn – the hope may begin to dwindle. Then, the rain comes. We cry out “Really? Rain? It’s hard enough as it is, and now the rain?” But, the rain is the one thing we need to loosen the tough soil of our field. Suddenly the pressure is relieved. The plowing still has to be done, but the pressure is on the soil, not our shoulders.

Ecclesiastes11:4 He who watches the wind will not sow and he who looks at the clouds will not reap. 5 Just as you do not know [c]the path of the wind and how bones are formed in the womb of the [d]pregnant woman, so you do not know the activity of God who makes all things.