I woke up this morning feeling “mean”, as my mother would say. My heart snarled. I got mad at the burner for not working. Mad at Pat for not fixing it. Then mad at him for fixing it. Mad that I can’t get a new stove. Mad at Joanna for not liking whole wheat pancakes, which was what I wanted. Mad that the iron burned a hole in the blanket it was leaning against while I pulled the ironing board down. Mad that some dog had chewed up the carpet in the closet. Mad that the pants I wanted to wear were too tight. Mad that the iron now has to be cleaned. Mad that Pat was awake from 4:00-6:00 thinking of 800 things he needs to do. Made that the whole wheat roll tasted gross with the sausage gravy. Mad that my hair looks like Medusa.
And that’s just the stuff that HAPPENED. There was a litany of other irritations, complaints ricocheting through my head.
But. Oh, the blessed “But”.
There are realities both tangible and hidden that are as real as these momentary triflings. Most important is that God has this universe, all the way down to my puny ramblings, in His hands. A sparrow, a hair, the thoughts before we think them. And He more than knows. He cares. And he literally gushes with promises to help us.
He offers us life in the midst of all this deadness, a bright light shining upon a beautiful slain but risen King, on whom we can direct all our focus, all our love, all our thoughts. The Eternal One invites us - we who some mornings can’t see beyond the crumbs on the kitchen counter - to look to him, to look upon him, to look at everything through him.
Just even the thought of that, the possibility of that, makes me glad. Well, almost. At least not so mad.
