All too quickly in our relationship, and all too frequently since, my husband has mentioned that he hates hearing me say the word, “overwhelmed.” I use it so often that it loses its meaning.
I’m not very good at balancing my life. I hate being busy, but I always want to be reliable; I want to go the extra mile. I want to be the cure-all, fix-all. I want to be able to handle everything that’s thrown my way. But the second I move past one to-do list onto another, I feel the panic rising.
The catch? I let the weight get to me. I let myself become overwhelmed.
I let things build up in pressure and plague myself with what-ifs and if-onlys. Because I’m not very good at giving the little things to God. Because I’m not very good at living a life of dependency. I forget something so critical to the state in which I live my life on a daily basis:
Each day. Every morning, without fail. Despite what the day before brought, despite my resiliency or lack thereof, despite the frustrations I had felt, despite the heartache, despite the sleepless night behind and ahead of me.
He greets me each new day, ready to hold my hand. Ready to put up with my pre-coffee grumpiness and hectic morning antics. Ready to not leave my side as I tackle the obstacle that is working in education. Ready to guide me through it. Ready to come home with me, and push me to rest when I need it. Ready to walk me through any situations that are out of my control. I’ll no doubt try to do what I can on my own, but I’ll crave the little reminders like this, that let me know I don’t have to.
Because each morning, when I wake up, there he is. Ready to be with me all over again.
And in that, I take heart. I find my patience and I find my peace.