The Rush

Oh, my Jesus.
Here it all comes.
Sports and music and home school and travelling.
Laundry and meals and house work.
Making the bed.
Getting out of the bed.
And I find my soul dying.
When I can not spend those deep times.
With You.
Alone.
With You.
Can't help feeling deeply sad.
Even as I drive the deeply privileged children.
How it makes me feel far away from you.
And why can't I be one of those women?
That thrive in the doing?
Instead, I grieve.
Even sometimes at the way You created me.
As if You didn't know what You were doing?
As if some how You made a huge mistake?
Even though I feel like one sometimes.
Help me to remember, my Jesus.
That I am Yours, and that You love me.
That You are with me.
In all this.
Rush and pressure and missing You.

The God Who never leaves,

Bernadette