I have packed myself in, reading books about the land for book clubs, books by authors speaking at Calvin's Writing Conference, books to spur me on in new endeavors. I am full of characters and stories and real survival of others, while forgetful of phones and tasks and streams of conversation. I am franticly speeding to school, events and commitments and somehow I find that when I sit down, I am unable to get back up. Yesterday I considered calling someone for help, even though I knew that was absurd. What is happened to me? I can always will myself to my feet, be pulled by little hands, but yesterday was hard.
The voice I heard while sitting was God's words as he spoke to Job, saying who are you in light of me? Who made you? Who knows you? Who formed the entire space wherein you dwell. I also imagined my mom arriving late to my games, but always on a path, going from one moment, one child, one prayer meeting, one meal to the next. She was always moving, but also holding onto a book a knitting project ready for the stagnant patches in between.
I know what I need to do is stay on the ground, lean into the quiet, but somehow all I want to do is dart forward, find some intertia to keep me in perpetual activity. If I move, then I won't get stuck again on the floor, wasting precious minutes. I drive longing for more books, a new pair of jeans, a space to run in? Why? Why do I think we should drive the family to Chicago for 2 days, sign up for more camps, find play dates and adventures to keep me from stopping?
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