PBJ with a side of grace

Three elements glow hot on the sauce-splattered stovetop while my patience grows thin. I am down to dinner idea number three, thanks to a shortage of tomato soup and ready-mix sauce that I swore was in the wire-ladden pantry. I rush, flustered, to the computer in search of a recipe to whip this dinner into order. Tummies are empty and the day runs long. I scramble to mix a little bit of this with a splash of that, all the while half-listening to my son tell me about his Lego conquests while I mumble frustration with myself.

Daughter leans heavy on the countertop and the unmistakable sound of shattering glass commands our attention. The plate lays broken in a myriad of pieces while daughter falls to pieces with tears. I shout angry and the door slams heavy to her room. The pasta sauce now bubbles thick, cheese bits glommed together in  an awkward union.  Dinner idea number three is ruined; three stikes, I'm out. My tears now join my daughter's as we both tantrum like children.

But grace is made especially for the undeserving - and this night, my son shows me grace. He sets the table quietly and then bounds up the stairs.

Within a few moments, his six-year old arms are juggling homemade cards, drawings and colourful flowers. He smiles broadly and tells me he is "decorating the table with his accessories". He walks proudly over to the table and arranges love onto the table. I inhale his grace and pull out a loaf of bread.

While he places the candle at the centre of the table, I spread peanut butter and jam thick. I gather up daughter, wipe her tears and join my son at the table. He leans over and asks me if I feel better. I grasp his hand and hold tight, "Thank you, for you, my boy. You make Mommy's heart happy." We all join hands and thank God for His presence. Son takes a bite of his sandwich and grins large while saying "This is the best supper, ever."

Amen to that.

Among the midst of bread crumbs and shattered glass, I take inventory of God's graces on me:
1170. A boy who can see my heart.
1171. Daughter who needs mommy's cuddles.
1172. Family to help with childcare.
1173. Fitting in at my new job.
1174. Lowering my expectations and increasing my joy.
1175. The ear-to-ear grin of my son while he plays hockey.

1176. Hearing my son's name announced on the hockey PA system.
1177. SKOR chocolate bars.
1178. Income.
1179. Hugging my son tight.
1180. A clean house (for the moment!)
1181. The sound of ice melting outside.
1182. Hearing my friend's voice from the other side of the world.
1183. Not having to know the answers.
1184. Ice cubes in my water.
1185. Dining out.
1186. Freshly washed sheets.
1187. Help around the house.

sacrificial doubt

I remember growing up in the Catholic church and I would dread the beginning of Lent because it meant I had to give up something I really loved (at least that was my interpretation of it at the time). Many times I "fasted" from chocolate, all the while making sure all my friends and family knew it whenever the creamy, cocoa-laden, melt-in-my-mouth heaven-here-on-earth delicacy was served.  This went on for years, decades.

This year, Lent carries a whole new meaning of sacrifice for me. Old routines, comforts and securities have been made nearly unrecognizable, somedays reduced to a quivering mirage in the desert. Emotions of guilt, anger and loneliness burn white-hot at the centre of my soul. 

Doubt permeates my every thought, spreading cancerous half-truths to my parched, grumbling, weak centre of self.  And it is here - in this foresaken pit - that I finally understand what Lent really is about. 

I believe Lent is a time for me to be broken...to be lost and insecure and without any control. Because it is only when I am stripped of my worldly-born beliefs that I can fully be restored in the belief of the heavenly sent - My Saviour. 

This is when faith walks out of the fires of doubt...refined, reenergized and ready.

With faith, I am capable of letting go of doubt and its beastly minions. Each moment - and I must live moment to moment - carries the promise of faith. The cost of faith is to lay down my doubts and sacrifice my need for control. 

I look to Him to show me the way out of this desert...through faith and sacrifice...