This morning I find Cam sitting at the
kitchen counter, about to take a swig of the Panado. I scold him ferociously
for playing with medicine, and myself for leaving it out. Then I drop the
Panado on the floor (in an attempt not to drop Scott, who is crying because I yelled
at Cammy). Superb. Glass. Sticky green. Both boys crying now. Lola is concerned
for us all, so she walks through the Panado to check on us. More sticky green –
golden retriever prints right out the kitchen door and beyond. Murray gets the
mop and we perform alternating manoeuvres involving teeth-brushing and
Panado-mopping and glass-splinter-retrieval and juice-bottle-filling and
school-bag-packing and nose-blowing and tempers are beginning to blaze,
somewhat. Mutterings and apologies. Panado and tears mostly mopped. We flee the
premises in a state of dubious readiness for the day.
The traffic on Glenwood Road soothes me
in a slow, bumper-to-bumper kind of way as John Robbie’s Irish lilt solves the
world’s problems. And I think: shouldn’t I be celebrating life? Shouldn’t I be finding
God’s glory in the mundane and the magnificent and the spilt muti?
So, I’m celebrating the life that two warm little bodies can
throw into an ordinary Thursday morning and I’m seeing God’s glory in teachable
moments and forgiveness for my failings and the hope of handling things better
next time.
‘Great
is his faithfulness; his mercies begin afresh each morning.’ – Lamentations 3:23
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