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Victories and Defeats
Our little grandbabies are so precious to us, and we celebrate every tiny new victory, every gained bit of knowledge. He is my whole life, and I mourn as each of those things we celebrate in the children are taken from him: how do you play that game? How do you do a puzzle? When do I take those pills?
Little Yellow Bowl My little yellow bowl broke today, its handle finally succumbing to 34 years of regular use and hot dishwashers. It’s not much of a bowl. Plastic, part of a set long gone. And I was surprised at the rush of emotion I felt. You see, my mother-in-law gave me that bowl. She gave me the whole set as part of a large box of utensils and bowls and dishcloths and other kitchen things her son and I would need as we set up our first home together. While many may not see that as such a big deal, it was. I was most decidedly not her choice for her son. And yet, she still did this thoughtful thing. I use that bowl for nearly everything. It has a little spout, making it perfect for pouring pancake batter on a hot griddle or cake mix into cupcake tins. And every time I used it over the years, I thought about her. The rest of the contents of that box are mostly long gone. But the little yellow bowl hung in there, for 34 years. My mother-in-law and I had what can ta...
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It’s been suggested that the voice I hear is not so much God as it is my inner self. That makes me smile, because I know both voices and recognize the difference instantly. My inner voice is not so kind, or encouraging, or gentle with me as my God reliably is.
Like most people, I suppose, I am my harshest critic, always ready to highlight a flaw or shortcoming. It is my voice which reminds me regularly of the scars, the grey hairs, the times I’ve been unkind or selfish, and the days where I’ve given less than my best. It is my voice that agrees with the hurtful things others say to me and about me, and tries to make their lies into my truth. It is my voice that points out how very high are the mountains I must cross, and how terribly ill-equipped I am to climb them.
But it is my God who reminds me of how my scars and grey hairs are hard-won, and the evidence of a full and blessed life. It is God’s voice that offers me forgiveness when I’ve caused others pain, and God who holds my hand as I seek reconciliation and forgiveness from them. It is God’s voice that speaks real truth into my heart, that reminds me I am a child of God, created in the image of God, and loved by God - just because. And it is God’s voice that cheers me on, over each hill and mountain, always promising - and delivering - blessing on the other side.
To which of these voices I’ll listen is always my choice. How very odd that I often choose the former over the latter.