Oatmeal

Some days I wake up so excited to see everything you will do

I wake up hungry to hold your soft hands that are learning so well to hold a spoon

But the feeling so quickly disappears with your first resistance to my direction

My anger swallows the patience I thought I had for you

My heart runs off to needing: space, a book, flavored coffee, and my journal

What I let stay present is a giant of entitlement that says I am right and have no idea how you feel.

In that moment when oatmeal and raisin hit the clean tile floor any empathy I had for you falls with it

But

Have I never been angry for not getting my way?

Have I never spit back at the Creator who has given me breath?

Have I never screamed for Barabbas after the hosanna feeling faded?

Do I consider myself so worthy of perfect gratitude that I have forgotten how much has been given to me?

Have I never thrown the provision of grace into the dirt?

Can I not look into your angry, rebellious eyes and see myself?

Can I not hear my own demanding as loud as the banging spoon?

Do I know so much that I can’t come hold your little hand in mine and do the most precious thing we could ever do together

Repent


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