The rains have come, and the steady gray damp has seeped into my soul. Instead of finding joy in this week before Thanksgiving, I found the to-do list exhausting in its length, impossible to complete. I found a heart wound that was draining, now festering, and anxiety had become a too-constant companion.
Yesterday, determined to check something off this daunting list, to distract from the aching fears, I started in on my baking, a new recipe propped against the flour jar. I could prove my worth here in the completion of this task. I could. I plumped raisins, stirred in homemade applesauce, sifted spices and baked, pulling the cake from the oven with hope. This was it...a check on the list, a salve to an insecure, aching mama.
And then, carefully following instructions, I turned the cake from the pan...and it came out in pieces.
The tears came. I would not ever get ahead...I would not ever accomplish the tasks of this day, let alone the great tasks ahead. And then, I realized where this crumbled cake lay. At the manger. Earlier in the day schoolbooks had taken the place of the nativity scene on the breakfast table, so the quiet scene was instead on my kitchen counter. It was there, at the manger, that my brokenness lay... I felt as if I heard that, whispered, lay your brokenness at the manger.
My list isn't finished today. But this day is His. The wound, open yet, is His too. And anxiety...I am steeling against that enemy-friend, fighting with giving thanks. And, this day, I thank Him for this reminder that He came because I was broken.