an unlikely feast

The dawn opens with a slim rim of brightness ebbing its way across the distant line of the horizon.  Blue and pink and searing orange the sky begins to streak with the colors of day.  It is like any other morning, and yet it is distinct in that it is the only sunrise assigned to today.  Tomorrow's will be similar, yet in its own way, different.  I'm excited as I continue to bounce up the steps to meet the many faces that need me.  The aftereffects of retiring too late and rousing too early linger in my step, but I shake them off knowing that today is a feast day.  The children are already awake and I run them through the morning routine of showers, breakfasts, multiple diaper changes, and getting dressed.  I'm sure we lose at least three socks along the way and misplace our shoes at least once.  I'm still looking for a matching sock for myself.

The monumental task of gathering four children, all their various accoutrements all while soothing complaints of "Mom!!! My shoes aren't buckled right!" and "My sock is on the wrong foot!" (who knew there was a right and wrong foot for socks) looms ahead of me.  Most days it seems insurmountable, but we bulldoze the task one child, one bag, one step at a time.  

As we buckle in I'm thankful that they are in their seats and won't be moving for the ten minute ride to the feast.   We arrive and do the loading in reverse to get all the kids dropped off and instructions given.  The anticipation is rising in my chest and I walk down the hall to the feasting room.  My smile widens as I approach the door and peer in.  The rest of the family is gathered around the table, ready to dig in.  I'm welcomed with open arms and shouts of "Hey, Kristina" and "Yay! You made it!" just as every other person has been welcomed.

The non-descript table is actually just two laminated pieces of MDF shoved together with metal chairs surrounding, but for the feast before us, it might as well be a mahogany banquet table laden with the finest china.  Instead of dishes, the Word in varying tones and shades of leather, and board, and cellulose lie bound on the surface waiting to be ingested, read, chewed, mulled over and lastly digested.  

I look at my family.  The women surrounding the table don't share my eyes or my hair, or any of my DNA to be completely honest, but we share a Savior.  The One who died for each of us and has welcomed each of us into his family.  These are my adopted sisters.  Some of them I have known for more than twenty years now {Rachel P., can you believe that number?  We are old, sista--well, only as old as we act, or feel ;-)}.  Others I have only known for a few years, but these are the women who know me.  They know my failures as a mom and as a woman and they accept me anyways.  This group of women handles the hard times, the sad times, the times that we ask with arms outstretched and tears of "WHY!?!" We handle it together and every other week we sit down together and feast while we tell stories about our Dad--how He showed up last week, what He taught us yesterday, and how we can't wait to see Him again.

Soli Deo Gloria