My niece turned eight years old last week, which boggles the mind because she was a newborn two days ago. 

She sent my son a Valentine's Day card, and this was on the back:

I agree, Mrs. Bird. What I've got to give isn't really good enough, but I've run out of time and I hoping for love anyway.

I'll hold out not even my best but my "this is what I could do with the little bit I had." My "I know I can do better and more complete...but here it is anyway." It's this or it's anything that isn't mine to give.

Maybe you feel the way I do at the moment, we all race each other to fill our days or at least our list of accomplished items. I find that daily I sit here this time of night in a house droning with sleeping family members and the hum of a refrigerator and a list buzzes and hums in my head. I bat them away, flies of annoyance buzzards of anxiety.

Here's where I rest tonight, and it's a strange place to call home: it is NEVER going to be complete. There will not be a day ever ever where there isn't something to do: a person to call, a dish to wash, a meal to prepare, a prayer to sit alongside. Tonight I allow myself this moment of quiet to push the antagonizing to-do to-do to-do back and up and out and rest within the havoc of my own creation. A bubble, an eye, a soft spot.

There's rest in the realization of that.

AuthorBeth Ables