grit

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I don't want to grit my teeth just to get through a day.  Sure there are certain tasks, like cleaning up bodily fluids that don't exactly strike my fancy, but I don't want my children to remember a mom who always grit her teeth and just finished a job for the sake of putting it behind her.

I'm called and commanded to find joy; find joy in the cleaning of the disgusting bathroom, find joy in the locked door of my house the key to which lies inside the house on the counter.

I'm to find joy in the heaps of laundry, in the legos littering my table (and more commonly, my floor) and the budget that stretches just enough, but never more.

He is to be my joy, my rock, my comfort.  My shelter in the ever pressing storm that whips about and tears at my heart and my head and all that I thought I was.  It is through this joy that I am reminded I am His and I am safe.  Safe from hurt?  No.  Safe from destruction, yes.

Gritting my teeth is my natural knee jerk response, but with every clench of my teeth, bone against bone I am saying, "I can do this on my own," instead of God, I can't.  I'm not enough. I need you.

I don't want to be like that.