Rest

I am driving through my neighborhood. 

Fifth delivery of the day. Bags, in their beginning and final stages. Slip pockets. Coffee. Quilted linen & thread.

I am craving a minute alone. I am spending every minute of Baby's nap. Am I spending it well? Well, none of it was spent with Him.  

I am talk-talk-talking. Sharing my heart, my life, my last shred of energy. 

I am sipping coffee, attempting to find some more. Energy.

I am late to Bible study at my own house. Our guest standing cold at the door. 

I walk inside and pick up pop-tart off the floor, drain Baby's forgotten bath water from the morning. I push aside any feelings of embarrassment. His grace is sufficient. His power perfect in weakness. 

I cling to the promise as I, the only extrovert, carry the conversation. Exhaustion gives way. {Coffee still being sipped.} 

Then somehow, again, I, in people, find rest.

Home

Tonight I was in a home where nine kids grew up. It was loud. Everyone brought a friend. It made me feel...

And then I come home to write this ... because it's still Friday.

Home is a house where everybody is welcome. 3 am. Trampoline. Playhouse. Tanning bed (though not I).

Home is everyone talking at once. The voices swell. The speaking stick is passed. Thrown. Swung ... at you.

Home is a car driving back and forth. Cheerleading. Softball. Dance. Softball. Basketball. Softball. Secrets are told: "What is said in this car STAYS in this car." Right, Mama Sherry? Oh, and there were three little girls from school.

Home is a bleacher. Field two. Field three. Field six. Or a concession stand.

Home is yelling. For her. To her. Love her: "You got this, Liz. It's all you!"

Home is a dirt road, yelling, "Amen, amen, amen. A-sing it over." Singing, "God is in control. We believe that His children will not be forsaken." Dancing, "Whoa-oh-oh-oh, whoa-oh-oh-oh. Do you wanna revolution?!"

Home is a four-wheeler. Leg scraped. Clothes muddied. Calf burned. Broke down.

Home is a drink. Large sweet tea, please. Styrofoam cup. Little red chicken in the letter C. You know the one.

Home is a living room. Candy bars under the microwave. Sweet tea in fancy glasses. Permanent marker atop the china cabinet. JCPenney catalog to be marked up.

Home is a people. A mama, a sister, an aunt to top all aunts, a grandma so fierce, the most handsome (may he rest in peace), one boy, two honorary sisters, the nephews.

Home is Cannady.