Saturday, February 4, 2012


My lamp. I got it from my Mom's house, and I love it.
A stack of books that are currently being read.
Mr. Potato Head magnet.

Often, I set my alarm for about an hour before I expect my boys to awaken, just so I can get some quiet time in before they tackle my good intentions and sidetrack my every effort of running an efficient home. I'm distractible enough on my own, but throw in two little boys and I can get downright nothing done before dinner time.  I robe up, find my slippers, and shuffle to the big armchair in front of the fireplace. First, I read my Bible. Then I type in my prayer journal.  I'll admit, I often find myself drifting off to sleep when I do this without coffee, but I really don't want to use the grinder, for fear of waking the boys and ruining my quiet. I get enough read to stay on track with the reading plan, at least before my littlest boy will come out from his grey, quiet den, where his older brother is still in bed. At this time of year, when he comes out a little before 7, the sun is just warming up the sky behind the trees, and the light from my lamp causes him to squint, and forces him to smile, even if he doesn't feel like it.  He'll tell me it's too bright, and hand me whatever book he grabbed from the bookshelf on his way out of his bedroom.  I turn off the lamp, and we settle in to our time together, in our fleece pj's. These books I've read to him and his big brother so often, many are memorized.  So, the lamp really isn't needed.  What I do need is that half hour or so, first thing in the morning.  Sometimes I get a lot accomplished.  Sometimes I don't. But if I don't try, I miss it all day long.  And I can't make it up at the end of the day.  And whether I finish what I started before my boy comes out, he doesn't know, and he doesn't care.  He finds me on my chair almost every morning and sees me with a book on my lap. Or my computer illuminating my sleepy head. Then he sees me put them down excitedly and extend my arms out and scoop him up for our morning ritual. And I realize that I'm a model.  In my slippers and robe, with a mess of hair clumped into a stringy bun or braid, and puffy eyes and furry teeth. I'm showing him that I read every morning. I pray every morning. I call it Jesus time. And it's something that I pray will imprint on his two-year-old mind.

He comes out, first thing, with a book and a squint.  He wants to connect with me. So he climbs up onto my lap and tells me he loves me and kisses my cheek. First one, then the other. He fits on my lap, and we love on each other. I wonder if he misses this time all day long if it doesn't happen.  Then I realize that he's a model.  A little human example of how important I am to my maker.  Me going to my chair, and reading God's love letter to me. Him excitedly extending His arms and scooping me up for our morning ritual. I've heard this before.  It's not a new train of thought.  But that doesn't mean that when it dawns on me personally that it isn't profound.