It's the kind of love that makes me say, "I don't want
to get out of bed" when it's cold outside and we're all tucked like
sardines into a jumbo tent, and the kids start wriggling, but I do it anyway. I
wonder when I'll grow into a person whose first instinct isn't always the
selfish one, when pulling covers tighter to my chin isn't what I'd rather do
than dress a chilly child for a hike to the bathroom, when I won't silently
wish I could eat a meal when I'm hungry before serving six other gaping mouths
like baby birds.
When does love come naturally?
My fingers are so swollen I have to retype the words over
and over. Camping and cold and hours of loading and unloading boxes and
children and duffel bags has angered my friend Fibromyalgia, who lingered
quietly in recent months until today, when she roars and thrashes and my whole
self aches under her influence. There are bananas on the table but all I can
really think about is coffee, even while reading Corinthians.
Even Scripture doesn't cure my selfishness today and I don't
pray that He overcome it either because I know deep that this is the sort of prayer
that is answered through opportunity to practice and that annoys me at the
moment. I have enough opportunities to practice. They are all here snoozing in
rhythmic breath on inflatable mattresses, tucked in tight and clean after bathing
all five assembly line style in the cold camp shower and making our way back in
the dark. They yawn and stretch and bed head prevails, and all today's quiet
moments have already been spent, but all I want is coffee still.
I'd keep them asleep a day long if I could, to ponder the
lake and whisper to God, counting ripples in the water like the way these
moments matter, these daily choices to wrap up littles in love when I'd rather
be alone, when I'm tired and sore and wishing for peace.
When does love come naturally?
