This post is by April Ward.
“Chica,” said the gorgeous doctor with a set of fresh French tips and runway hair, “I’m prescribing you ten days of antibiotics, something to get rid of the mucus, and painkillers, just in case. If this doesn’t treat your sinusitis, there’s no more I can do. You’ll have to go to the specialist.”
And with those words, I bounced out the door, handing the receptionist and the clinic guard a sandwich bag tied with red curling ribbon filled with chocolate chip cookies, to encourage them in their often underappreciated work and shuffled down the gravel trail home, triumphant.
You see, in three weeks, I’ll have persevered through six months--half a year, fighting a cold or sinusitis or some unrecognizable condition that keeps my sinuses shouting, my taste buds in retirement, my new Google-induced hypochondriac tendencies emerging, and my patience at home tipping out the last waning droplets.
As I sat in the waiting room, waiting for the nurse to mispronounce my name, a given, as my English name doesn’t easily roll off the tongues of Spanish speakers in my Central American hometown, my heart was racing. I’d left the house late, practically jogged uphill at 5500 ft. toward the quaint robin’s egg blue country clinic. Waiting rooms make me nervous even without the sprint.
“Jesus,” I whispered, “Jesus, Jesus...” There is power in his name. Power to heal, power to calm any storm we face. In this case, power to grant my anxious heart rest as I awaited a new verdict on my respiratory madness.
Just before the Doc called me in, I realized my nerves had calmed enough to focus on the parenting book lying open on my lap. Relief. All praise to Him.
God time doesn’t just happen in yoga pants at six AM, curled up in a sunny corner of the couch with a home-brewed latte and a shiny new pen. It happens all day long. When we’re intentional, it happens.
First thing in the morning is ideal, which you long-time readers already know. If all you’ve got time for is a breath prayer, pray it. A Psalm? Read it, or better yet, belt it out as your own one-of-a-kind melody. Offering up our day to the One who gave it to us is an honorable, humble, invigorating way to begin the morning.
God time doesn’t need to feel like something we check off our schedules. We’re no longer under the Law, but grace. Grace. Ah, the sweet sound that reminds us that He’s here, in charge, and always available for us to reach out in surrender and in love. Just meet with Him.
Most mornings find me rolling over in bed reaching blindly toward the nightstand for my pink Bible. Slowly, I’ll peel open a corner of the curtain to welcome in a patch of light and continue my year-long journey through the Bible. One chapter. That’s enough. He sees my effort and gives me grace for the new day. Later on, I finish up the reading plan while I’m nursing my youngest or winding down for bed.
Today’s first God encounter wasn’t at my three PM appointment. If it had been, my children would’ve been huddled in a corner hiding from a worn out mama long before lunchtime. With four young children home all day long, I must get in the Word before I see their freckled faces and pillow-shocked hair. Spending time with Jesus doesn’t always look perfect. It doesn’t have to.
April a married, homeschooling mama to four who scribbles down too many dessert recipes, loves Jesus, and grows veggies in her front yard. Find her at jellibeanjournals.com.
Photo by Martha Dominguez de Gouveia on Unsplash
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