(A Modern Wiseman’s Journey)

The Journey

Every day’s the same. Alarm clock dings. Coffee pot gurgles. Weary eyes open.

The early morning bustle of breakfast, getting dressed, and coaxing my children out of hibernation seems endless. We never wake up early enough. Then we can’t find shoes. Or homework. Or we forgot to turn on the dryer. Anything can be the source of a meltdown. Can’t find a favorite shirt. Cowlicks won’t lay down. Socks are crooked. The dog peed on the floor, and somebody stepped in it. Countless moments of ridiculousness.

Finally, we are all loaded up. Arguing. Fighting. Throwing. Seriously? Why can’t we just get in the car, let me finish my coffee, and drive to school in peace? But no. I’m a continual referee. I feel the frustration rising, but I also know I’m the grown up. Deep breaths. Calm words.

Drop off finally happens and I find myself alone for a few minutes in the car. A deep sigh exits my lungs. Peace. Quiet. But silence only lasts for a moment as my phone beeps with messages and reminders. Call this person. Complete this task. Remember this event. Make more fliers. Email that agency. On and on my To-Do list grows as the beeps consume my peace.

I make it through the day’s chaos. Time to pick up the kids. Then sports practice. Or some other activity. Oh, and I forgot to buy groceries, so a jaunt into town with two children. That never ends well.

We survive the grocery store and make it home. I forgot to lay out the meat for supper. Guess its’s macaroni and fish sticks. Again. The pots are dirty, so I clean up dishes from last night, unload and reload the dishwasher. Once I get the macaroni cooked, I realize I forgot milk.

Homework isn’t happening in the next room, so I redirect my distracted children. Suddenly I remember the laundry that I didn’t do last night. No one has clean pants for tomorrow. As I walk toward the washer, a disgusting aroma reaches from the trashcan and assaults my nostrils. Why didn’t someone take this out last night?

The smoke alarm goes off because I left the fish sticks in the oven to long. The kids freak out and run outside. Husband walks in and asks me about my day as the dog jumps on me leaving muddy footprints.

My face says it all, but he’s convinced it’s something he has done. Somehow, we make it through supper after spilling cups of water and trying to teach appropriate table manners. Bath time is next and there is arguing about who goes first and what happened to towels and washcloths.

The Invitation

Finally, teeth brushing and bedtime are here. I give hugs and say good night. Then I retreat to the bedroom, hoping to catch some quiet. Without warning tears leak down my cheeks.

“I have nothing left, God,” I pray in a whisper as my head falls on the pillow.

Somewhere in my heart I hear a faint invitation, “Come to me. I want you just like you are.”

“I’ve got nothing to give. No energy. I’m spent.”

“Come. Be with me.”

I dry my eyes and open my bible to Psalms 3:3-4, “But you, Lord, are a shield around me, my glory, and the one who lifts my head. I cry aloud to the Lord, and he answers me from his holy mountain.” Peace floods my weary heart. God sees me. He hears. And answers.

So, I come. Weary. Worn out. Exhausted. I offer the only thing I have left to give. Myself. My will. My emotions. My dreams. My hopes. My plans. My talents. My time. My heart. My soul. My mind. My everything.

The wisemen traveled across their known world to reach King Jesus when most days I struggle to breach the distance between standing on my own understanding and falling on my knees.

But I guess it’s in the moments when we have nothing left to offer that we understand the fullness of his love. When we are weak, He is strong. When we have nothing left, He is enough.

All I can bring is actually the best thing I can offer. My everything.

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