I squeeze my temples dramatically and seethe, "I must be a terrible teacher because you are not getting this after all this time." Nothing like a little passive agressive shame treatment. I really want to quit this day. I have very few days when I feel so ornery and defeated, thankfully. I stomp off to the bathroom to breathe deep and get ready to, of all things, head to a worship rehearsal. I feel a long way from worshipful.
A quiet knock on the door and I think, "Leave me ALONE," but don't say it. The door opens a crack and a little hand reaches in to drop a card on the vanity that says, "I love you, mom. I'm sorry." I walk downstairs and another little hand is dangling a card, though the rest of her is turned the other way. "To: Mom Thank you for all the wuderful things you have said to us in the past it was alllllllll me not you not Megan allllll me. pS I was the one who was gumpy."
My icy heart melts a bit, though I still feel like a taut rubber band. Lord, tame this temper. Soften me up. Work this hardened dirt into supple clay.
I know their hearts are worth more than a right answer on a flashcard...and that my value has nothing to do with numbers and everything to do with grace. May it sink in like spring rain. Love them. Love them. Just love them.
Love always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. I Cor. 13:7
