thirsty
“Mom?”
Riley reaches into the cabinet to my right, rising up on her toes behind me, leaning like a shoot. I wash dishes at the sink, my sore hands soothed by the hot water, the soft soap. The bottoms of my feet hurt from standing so long, and at the end of an afternoon spent prepping meals for the week, I feel as stained and scarred as the floor beneath me, this tired vinyl, worn by nearly twenty years of our lives.
If I think about it, if I turn my attention toward the excellent things, I will give thanks for my mama, who taught me how to cook; for all the food that will feed my people, that we don’t have to scavenge or beg or feel hungry for long; for this kitchen and all the tools; for this body of mine that God strengthens to do the work. I will give thanks that God brilliantly designed these hands and feet, this skin and bone, to tell me when enough is enough.
But I’m not there yet; I have resisted letting Him catch my attention.
“Yes?” I answer Riley, trying not to let the tired seep into my syllables. Even so, I can hear it slide in at the end, like a hiding child, pouty, huddled in the shadows.
“I’m so thankful that you and Dad pray for me, that you pray for me about driving someday.”
I’m so thankful that you pray for me. Not, I wish it wasn’t so. Not, it hurts me and I’m tired. Not I want, I want, I want.
I’m emptied; I want. Riley’s words draw my gaze toward the clean water splashing into my palms, alive, swelling there like rivers. I’ve spent too much time today feeling parched. But I’m like a tree; I have sap to quench my thirst; I have roots to keep me anchored. She thanks me for clinging and yielding and relying on God, and I begin to understand again why I can be thankful for weakness. Only thirsty people drink.
Could it be that she’s so full because she trusts God, because she has no doubt He loves her?
“And we are glad to pray with you about that,” I say. The words come out like a sigh, like relief. She has no way to know the window she opens for me, the sacred wind dancing across my cheeks. No, that’s not true: She has her own relationship with God, her own knowledge of Him. Our thanksgiving, hers and mine, overflows, like two wild tributaries rushing together to pool at God’s feet.
“Mom? When do you and Dad pray for me about driving someday?” She continues, pausing with an empty glass in her hand, momentarily frozen next to me. It’s like her to want to know a time; she never feels certain about anything unless she knows the specifics. I smile at her, wondering how much more we would all pray for one another if we always expected such a question.
“Sometimes we pray for you together while we’re walking outside,” I say, turning toward her, drying my hands on a towel beside the sink. “And sometimes, Dad and I pray for you separately, in the morning usually, while we’re starting the day with God. But I pray for you at other times too, like when I know it’s on your mind and troubling you. Sometimes, I just stop what I’m doing and ask Him because I feel the need to.”
I wish I could say that it occurs to me to pray right now, to wrap my arms around her and ask God for what only He can do for her, but I’m still learning to read interruptions as opportunities. So even recognizing this as more than I thought it would be, I don’t think to do the thing she wants most from me, the thing I’m most desperate to do anyway, and just pray for her. Somewhere broken, I still try to fix it myself. I over-talk it; somehow I focus on us praying–the when, the where, the how, and never actually get around to praying. And still, God loves me.
It’s about His perfection, not mine.
“Thank you,” Riley says, suddenly more serious than usual. She fixes her eyes on mine, gripping me. “I really appreciate it.” She speaks slowly, deliberately, like she wants me to understand how important this is to her. And then I see it, that faith of hers fierce enough to throw mountains into the sea, and I know that’s enough.
