The one where I'm a 2 year old with a splinter

My finger is pink and throbbing and my throat trembles with a sob. The memory is flooded by the yellow glow of the lamp by the couch. Daddy sits and draws me to him. Even sitting, his knees are still as high as my chest.

"Ok, let me take a look, sweetie."

I remember his big, warm hands tilting my finger for examination. So gentle, so safe.

"You have a little splinter--see that? I'm gonna get it out for ya."

He must have explained. He always explained. Patient, child-size words for my reassurance were always in abundance. My Daddy has a teacher's heart.

The next thing I remember is the blanket over my head, a sheltering shadow of fibers glowing in the lamplight while the warm hands tenderly coaxed the painful spot.

The edge of the blanket hung below the huge knees. My finger and its splinter were out there, in the brightness. All I could see were the shoes below and the yellow light pressing pinkly through the weave of the blanket while my wound was probed.

I didn't need to see it; I needed only to stand still and open my hand so Daddy could fix me.

This week, I was shifting loads of laundry from one machine to the next when God pulled this memory, dripping with intensity and light, from the archives of my memories. Hubby was shocked that I could remember so much at age two! I'm not really sure how I can, but I'm thankful. Since that moment with the laundry, I've turned this memory over and over in my mind like a shining penny, relishing it for the truth it deposited in my tiny-girl heart.

She was loved.

She was safe.

Even if her finger hurt, Daddy could be trusted.

Twenty five years later, I am so thankful that I have a daddy who--by his tenderness, his compassion, his gentleness, his delight in his daughter--set the stage for me to know God, the Father.

Daddy, I know you'll read this. I love you, and happy birthday. :) 

Five Minute Friday::Fight

A new year, and I'm linking back up with Lisa-Jo at her online writer's party, Five Minute Friday! The basic idea is this: a one-word prompt, five minutes, and the courage to see what comes out.

Ok, ok, this took me WAY longer than five minutes. It was typed between phone calls with grad students and faculty, my lunch break, and conversations with student workers. Every time I turned back to the screen, my mind had to take a minute or two to regroup.

And then the prompt was just so GOOD this time, or maybe the things it stirred were so good, that five minutes just wasn't enough to sift through it all.

PROMPT: "Fight"

Three days ago, the year quietly turned over.

In Decembers past, I have knelt on the floor with the pieces of the previous year and made better plans. The lists have gotten longer each year, the sense of failure harder to sweep into the trash. But I have fought on, doggedly. I craved a sense of control, something to fight and strive for. It scratched my performance itch, that old wound that wondered “am I enough?”

But three days ago, there were no lists. There were no pre-failure tears. There were no crowding ambitions to stroke my pride.

The birth of this New Year carried the same peace as the Birth celebrated five days earlier. A miracle.

In 2013, I was glaringly inadequate. Far from the familiar realm of academic success, the working world was harsh to this newbie who didn’t understand the sarcastic culture of unkindness in which I found myself.

Gone were the grades, the part-time job where I knew what I was doing, the leadership role that was defined and comfortable.

But I was held.

My brokenness devastated me, but not Him. At the end of my striving, there He was, the same Savior who captivated my little-girl heart. I was tired of the fight for sanity and acceptance and rest and blog hits and emotional stability, but when I collapsed I found myself caught. Caught by the arms that had already streached out to me and the world two millenia prior.

I am realizing for the first time in experience what I have long known:

He Himself is my peace.

Not my ability to bring order to the chaos. Not the cleanness of my counters. Not whether friends remember my birthday or I remember theirs.

He. The Prince of Peace. The baby who folded small into a teen mom and yanked Heaven into our messy world so strangely.

He still holds the helpless (me), still accepts the unacceptable (me again), and still meets my mess with love.

My brokenness will only find wholeness when I rest in the hands that were broken for me.

My ceasefire can only come when I believe the fight he won was sufficient. Before 2014 begins, it is finished.

And I can rest from the fight.