Friday, January 30, 2015

The Pace of Grace


{photo credit}



“Hurry, hurry, hurry!  Fast feet, fast feet!  Make your big, 
fast steps!"

A frenzy of backpacks, lunches, and feet-- big and small-- all a blur in the chaotic bustle of the morning.

One boy balances toast and sausage in a napkin.  Little Bitty totes a sippy cup of chocolate milk like a baby doll in the crook of her arm.

She grasps the car door with her other arm, attempting to scale the mountain leading to her car seat.

Her leisure stroll leads me to stoop low and quickly buckle her into her seat.  Her brow furrows and tears flow.

I want to join her in the cry-fest, the day barely born.

The car is freezing.  Misty clouds form with our breaths.

“Everyone buckled!?"

A boy suddenly remembers something in the house, a book or coat.  Feet flurry quick through the door, which swings on its hinges.

I sigh with edginess, “Hurry up!"

And the mood of the space hovers on the edge of unhinged.

“Hurry up!,”  my Big Girl shrieks, her voice as shrill and urgent as a train whistle.

It’s like staring at the pines casting a double picture on the glass surface of a pond, as I take in the sound of my Big Girl’s voice, a reflection of her mama’s.

Frantic.  Sharp.
The cool air rustles leaves in the front yard, and the brown brittle foliage of my heart stirs.

The first fallen leaves are growing mold under the piles in the flowerbeds.  The rot is contagious, as I’ve strewn frenzy across our morning and into the hearts of my children.

This push.  This panic.  I’m stirring it with my own hands.

When did life become frantic?  Hands on little shoulders, pressing them to hurry.

When did the air of our home become this fast pace?

The rapid movement and terse words create frigid hearts.  Anxious souls.

The fast pace does not slow the soul.  Movement of hearts happen in the slow and rest. 

Where is gratefulness for misty breaths, pumping legs, and beating hearts?

The rushed, hurried heart has no space for awe and wonder.  No gratefulness beats in the frantic, thudding rhythm of my agenda.

When the pace slows, the heart thaws and breathes fresh.

Life is not a race.  The pace is only grace.

I repent as the boy returns with his puffed coat and red cheeks.  I'm in no hurry to leave.  We bow heads and I pray for hearts overflowing with gratefulness and kindness.  I pray for slowed hearts...soul building instead of soul wrecking.

It is all grace.  That He would stoop low to catch me, remind me, rescue me-- again and again-- when I forget to slow my pace and drink deeply of His immeasurable grace. 








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1 comment:

Kristin Taylor said...

Oh, do I ever know this hurried pace that looks nothing like grace. I'm guilty of that, but so thankful for new opportunities to try again. :) I'm glad to be your neighbor at Soli Deo Gloria.