Whenever breathing is a chore.

Sometimes breathing doesn’t come without a struggle. Like when your grandmother is giving every breath back to the air surrounding, as she whispers to her husband that she releases him from their wedding vows. Through thick & thin. Richer or poorer. Sickness or health. Til death do us part.

 

I lose my ability to catch the God air tickling my nose every time I imagine the unconditional love portrayed through broken hearts unable to help even themselves, let alone the beloved they made love to all these years since those wedding vows, I do resounding all over again. The feeling of not only bearing a burden, but being a burden. The words are as crippling as the tears they induce, stinging the whole way down to the waterfall dripping cold rain off your chin, clotting the shirt below.

 

My grandmother felt this.

 

& when I think about my grandfather, I think of love. Because Love stayed in the rainy season. Love was battered, watching the life drain out of his forty something year old wife, who felt the weight of helplessness. Love couldn’t coo her with sweet words of ‘everything’s going to be alright’, because it was a matter of time before God reeled her back in for a hug in eternity. Love couldn’t fix. Love couldn’t give advice. Love could only wait, intertwining calloused hands with those beautiful long, skeleton fingers. Love could only carry, being the very strength that she lacked, picking her up in his arms to carry her every time she needed to go to the bathroom. Love simplified matters, turning solids into liquids when she couldn’t swallow any longer. Love listened through the silence, still valuing every word her deteriorating muscles wouldn’t let her speak, buying boxes of blank, miniature-white note pads for her to unravel her mind.

 

Love was patient. Love was kind. Love kept no record of wrongs.

 

Somedays breathing comes like a chore. The sort of labor that comes in birth pains, losing a loved one, & a broken heart. Sometimes internal wounds are more physical than a splinter, more felt than a paper cut.

 

Can I encourage you here, dear heart?

 

Breathe. Pray. Cry out. Worship. Find God. Search for Him. Pursue His peace. The darkness is staggering but within you is a brilliance like the brightest of days. God has given you strength to breathe. He has given you grace to remember.

 

I find God in the kitchen.

 

There is something about piling the colorful, mismatched ingredients on the counter, something about the textures & colors uniting in swirls through an oversized white plastic bowl. I find God in patiently adding each ingredient, in the time it takes to piece perfection. The only time I do not rush through life, as I see the importance of each fine detail.

 

I find God in licking the batter off the mixers, a habit formed as a child.

 

I breathe.

 

I see the world turn upside down & peoples spontaneity producing inconsistent results, & I look down at my hands rolling the flaking cinnamon & sugar tightly away beneath the overlapping dough, giving way beneath these awkward hands. I watch the dough arise to its most beautiful, golden form, cinnamon revealing the heart of the roll as it speckles the crease. There’s a comfort in knowing that flour, sugar, & eggs will faithfully result in a sweet treat.

 

 This is where I find him, this is where baking gets spiritual. Because passions & hobbies are intertwined with the Creator, as well. It’s in these moments, when life is heavy & breathing is walking &, yet, we’re choosing to dwell in His love. It’s simple, really. Not a cure all, a ‘you’ll never ache again’. But a little bit of pixie dust in the midst of the mud puddle? Yes.

 

Passions are pursuit, too. Delicacies in the easy, carefree, & threads of grace in the difficulty. Don’t be afraid to live, love. Don’t be afraid to find Him in the quirky delights of your being. Welcome him. He is the love upholding those moments. He is that spark of hope. Breathe deep. Breathe easy.