Where Are Your Feet?

I waited patiently for the Lord;
he inclined to me and heard my cry.
He drew me up from the pit of destruction,
out of the miry bog,
and set my feet upon a rock,
making my steps secure.
He put a new song in my mouth,
a song of praise to our God.
Many will see and fear,
and put their trust in the Lord.
(Psalm 40:6)

Cold, wet mud on my feet, is one of my favorite things.

It makes me feel closer to God then any other earthy experience, unrelated to people. But with it typically comes the rain or thunder, storming the ground and the air that my feet and my body take presence in. There is something about being grounded in the midst of chaos and feeling the chaos connect to my physical body. It’s kind of like when you take that gasp of air on a really cold day, reminding you of just how alive you are and just how out of your hands that life really is.

It awakens all of the senses.

And when the miry mess grips my feet, I ache for the thing that calms it.

I don’t pretend to understand the hard and the miry and the bogs of life.

In fact, when I try to, I feel madly out of control.

Both of my own miry-gripped things that feel slippery and confusing and unfair, and of the miry I see and weep the hardest tears over.

People have told me how strong I am lately, with Grayson and his heart and the waiting and unknown.

I don’t feel strong. I feel like it’s what I have to do, otherwise I fall to bits.

And it isn’t my strength, it’s the strength I was pulled into.

Because behind the strong mama you see, the mama asking for circles of prayers to draw together; behind the words I share of Gray’s smile and his joy; behind my openness in my journey– there is a mom who at the core of her flesh is feeling pretty undone.

That undone has spanned a range of wild these last few months.

From tangibly undone parts of our house that I can’t seem to keep up with, to the undone internal struggle of wondering what my purpose is beyond my children’s diapers and overwhelmed feelings and the cyclical nature of a twenty four hour day. To the repeat wave of dirty dishes and at least three loads of clean laundry waiting to be put away.

Undone healing that has left me in bitter fragments, and years of unforgiveness bubbling up as anger that is unfamiliar and frustrating. Undone control over things that feel like they should be in my control. Like doing all the right things for my ten month old and still not being able to see what’s happening inside the delicate places of his heart.

Undone space in our marriage that needs time and tenderness, undone dreams that continue to be sown, and undone conversations that have been tabled for time and boundaries sake.

Undone reaching and undone giving, undone minutes that were meant for one thing and exchanged for the reality of the moment. Which has again undone my instinctive control.

Some days I just feel mad. And some days I just look mad.

Which is why I need Jesus, and His hearing me.

Which is why I need the rock He’s set me high up on, giving me a secure stand and a much bigger picture beyond my very tired, human eyes.

It is the only strength I have when my flesh parts are failing me. When other people’s flesh and self, and even good intentions fail me. When my hopes fail me and are exchanged for His plan. When my days fail me and in the failing and the falling, He is raised higher.

He allows Himself to be raised higher than I, so that He is all I’m left to see.

Even when my feet are covered in all of the miry crap and I can hardly wrap my head around the bogs I’ve been walking through or storms I’ve been standing in, I can still

breathe deep to his name

exhale his promises

pray bold in his truth

sing through my tears

ask specifics in my cries

see his favor and provision

know he’s marked every detail

and believe His goodness still.

I trust Him. I trust His heart for me. And I’m praying the same for you.

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