The day is winding down now. We made it through school, though I slept for part of the day fighting a fever while Troy filled in for me. In the midst of the chaos of Monday tasks and household malaise, Judah surreptitiously found his way unnoticed downstairs to wreak havoc. Eighteen months old, and there's nothing he can't get his hands on. The other day it was pulling down chicken salad from the top shelf of the refrigerator with his accomplice, the bathroom stool. Today he managed to pull Troy's laptop down off the kitchen counter where he fixes breakfast while catching up on emails and listening to John MacArthur podcasts.
Five minutes of being alone--that's all it takes for that kid to find trouble. I know Troy's already overwhelmed heart came to a complete stop when we heard the crash and discovered his laptop on the kitchen floor. I thought he might blow his top, or just certifiably freak out, as we could not imagine another setback. But to my surprise, with all the kids and me at his heels, he stopped before opening up the laptop, and said, "I need to pray." Upon seeing their dad's seriousness and frustration, each boy bowed his head--even Judah. Troy did not pray for the laptop to be okay, or for Judah to quit being so high-maintenance (as I would have); he prayed for his perspective, his attitude. Be angry; yet, do not sin...He prayed to trust Him regardless of the outcome. I knew his prayer was not just about the computer.
No sign of damage thus far.
The kids are now up from their naps and are snacking on crackers and listening to The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe from the audio recordings of The Chronicles of Narnia. I know the reprieve may only last a short while, but nevertheless, for now, they are quiet, still, listening, imagining. They are mesmerized by the adventures and tales of danger and victory. They sit quietly, on the edge of the couch, anticipating Aslan's next move as the King of Narnia defends his children against his enemy.
I await the day my children discover that life's journeys, too, encounter a formidable adversary; that the King is and will be victorious, and that joys and tears will rise and fall as they wash the truest sediments of our faith onto the shores of our daily lives. It's not a story; it's life. So, I borrow from my children's posture as this day passes: quiet, still, listening, believing.
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