I move amongst the early light, quietly padding across the tile, furtively pouring my coffee, plopping myself in front of a glowing screen.
I have stolen these hours from myself, the ones that once offered the deepest sleep and the most creative dreams, in order to hone a craft. I come to this space hoping to quell the voices that spin doubt and distrust throughout my head and my heart and my life.
Every morning I pray that the opening of my everything will bleed truth upon the page and I will find clarity and redemption once again…But, as it so happens, much of the richness and beauty of this mortal coil hinges on perspective. And more often than not, it is the perspective of those little people that I need to embrace, rather than my own.
They see things that I don’t see…but my children, those that are still so fresh from God that to drink them in is to sip of glory, they see it so differently. They see below the surface. Their eyes penetrate the shallow veneer. They look for the light because they are scared of the darkness and in their minds, the former is most definitely stronger than the latter. in the midst of my chaos they drop anchor with me. Or rather, they drop anchor for me.
And somehow, in those moments, when all becomes stilled and secure and the coursers stop their charging and the waters quiet my heart…i cling. I am not really the anchor. No, really I am not. I am simply lit from behind and my silhouette…well it must be shrouding their vision.
Because I too, am clinging. With every bit of strength i have, I cleave to this anchor that my children claim to see in me but that is really from Him and I know it. It is always all from Him. Above the surface the waters may roil and wrench of they may flatten and glisten, but here, clinging to this anchor, we are safe.
Holly Grantham’s guest post on The Sacred Everyday