blur of beauty

Wrapped in covering, wrapped in warmth, weary.

So weary with Day all spent,  little left, like lent covered coin in pocket corner.

The all thats left, all that remains is worn and small.

So fragile with fatigue.  Fragile with the blur of day.

We sit at headboard posts like guards to the castle, like judge to his court.

Needing wisdom of Solomon. For him.

Moments for teaching arrive at going on the midnight hour.

So pressing, so looming so in need of Creator God. For him.

We speak what we know, we temper and cool the emotions that cry out.

And we hear blurs of beauty, faint whispers of beauty. From him.

Parent ears know the sound.

Count the small victory in the heat of battle.

The rest we now take, not on laurels but on His Grace.

And sweet sleep comes and restores a bit, but not in full.

So much life pours into parenting bedside at night. Battle weary we.

Talk of charachter and patience and the right thing and all such.

Morning comes with fresh beauty, freshly brewed grace.

Always the surprise, the element of, no plot designer can out design His hand on lives.

She texts her JOY from school.  It megaphone screams restoration and awesome wonder.

I tell her my spirit cries with happiness and shared joy.  I have no tears, fatigue has

stolen my happy tears for now.  Sapped and drained from late night chapters on life,

studied and crammed and tested.  Weary student, weary teacher.

I am the student.  Learning, still learning.

Approaching mid night, she asks please steam the wrinkles.

Heat and steam press out on cloth.

This love symbol, this love language for us, the pressing out of the wrinkles. Weary gift.

The making beautiful and crisp.

Wobbly-legged me and steamer give what there is.

Heat and steam blur.  Eyes blur.  Heart cries out for horizontal rest.

These seventeenth and eighteenth years of life cross paths, intersect.

One becoming woman.

One becoming man.

And I am student.