Go Lower

I feel like I can't go much lower; my Littlest has been weeping because she misses her father, who travels a lot. And there is no consoling my little girl, and I have nothing left to give. And I open Ann's book and the title of the chapter is Go Lower.

And I can't wait to see what this means.

It's about a red ball, and laughter, and a note from a far-flung hotel. And I thought I couldn't go lower, but the mention of the hotel makes me cry. Did I say I couldn't go lower?

You can always go lower.

At the library, I told my friend how my Littlest shook last night in her bed, cried and claimed "despair" and "treachery" (and I might have laughed in delight at the big words if she hadn't been so serious in the telling).

You can remind her that God is her Father, my friend said.

I could.

I make my way through the rest of Ann's chapter, and it's more about joy, the red ball, children's arguments, broken glass, and going lower in an altogether different way before the Father.

I humbly open my hand, says Ann.

Maybe I will make this my phrase, since I'm tired of holding things together anyhow. And the truth is that you can always go lower, and sometimes it helps to remember that, doesn't it?

I turn the phrase over in my mind...

I humbly open my hand. I humbly open my hand.


___

Quote from Chapter 9 of the beautiful book One Thousand Gifts: A Dare to Live Fully Right Where You Are.

Morning with the Moon

She rises each day, before her sister... before obligations and breakfast, chatter and business. The night before she has looked at the sky. What are its nuances? She carries them into quiet morning moments. If the sky has disappointed with a blank stare, she imagines color, shape.

I find her paintings when I pass through and she has gone on to other things... reading, sewing, building, chatting. I find them and drink in her morning with the moon.


Moon paintings by Sara, 12. Used with permission.


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