Oh, it was awful.
I was freaking out. I couldn’t find my memory card, which meant I couldn’t post my brussels sprout pictures. And, they were so pretty, too.
Fine. I’ll eat the manicotti.
You know that place. You’ve been there. When you don’t care anymore. You’re trying to make things right, make things work, and nothing is happening. So, you just stop caring.
I ate it. Yum! So good, and entirely life depleting. That’s what I wanted. It was my drug of choice, my self-medication for the morning while my two-year-old napped:
Prescription for feeling pitiful: Manicotti
Side effects: Instant energy drainage. Sleepiness and heaviness of heart.
Warning: Do not attempt to drive or make any important decisions while under the influence of this drug.
Then, before I crawled into bed, welcoming whatever pasta-induced dreams might befall me, I heard that little Voice:
Go check in the pencil holder
Ugh. Are you serious? Now? All right, fine. I really don’t think my memory card will be in the pencil holder but, whatever.
I walk up the stairs, go to the living room, look in the pencil holder and find nothing.
Hmmm. . .
I keep looking. Nope, not around the bookshelf or the toy organizer. Then I see it:
Over the past few days, she’s been collecting things, lots of little things, from all over the house. I pick it up, tip it over, and. . . there it is, my memory card.
God you are so awesome!
The words tumble out of my mouth. I can’t believe it! I listened and followed, and there it was.
But, I did it begrudgingly. I thought I knew better. I really believed there was no way that memory card was in the living room.
But, that didn’t stop Him. My attitude didn’t keep Him from showing me His love. He knew what was on my heart even as I was doing my utmost to numb whatever I was feeling.
He wanted me brought back to life, not walking around half-dead from my own self-induced concussion.
After finding it, I still went to sleep, but with a heart at peace. I remembered the story of the woman who lost her coin, and how she rejoiced when she found it. Now, I wonder if my Father was shouting just as much because a bit of my heart had been taken back from the dead.
Why do I doubt His voice and His intentions?
Why can’t I just believe?
What makes it hard for you to believe?