Sometimes, even right before it really begins, you’ve got a feeling how the week’s going to go.
I look in the mirror early on a Monday morning, the bedhead looking more like a monsterhead, and I look right into that water-splattered mirror.
And tell the woman looking back at me how the next seven days are likely to go down — are going to likely try to take me down.
The mail’s going to bring bills and sucker punch first thing.
And he’s going to the say wrong thing or nothing or claim he never heard you say a thing, and every time you look away from the clock, time will just up and suck down whole hours like an industrial shop vac and you’ll be left wondering where into the bowels of the world did this week really go?
The inner chamber of the microwave is going to look like a gory battlefield of losing, epic proportions by Tuesday.
You’ll have to clean a toilet. Or regret that you didn’t. The laundry’s going to laugh at you.
And by Wednesday, you’ll pull a three inch hair from the chin and you’ll replay who you talked to on Monday and Tuesday this week who must have saw it at an inch and a half.
You might eat too much, have to referee something between little kids or still-kids in very big bodies, and it’s statistically a cosmic likelihood that you’ll be late at least once, forget something twice, and get a whole lot wrong.
You’ll laugh a bit like it all doesn’t matter, or least doesn’t hurt, and there will be broken eggshells left on the counter and broken promises left after the fact and the real, exposed truth of it is, after it’s all said and done? Is that under it all, we’re right broken.
No one knows but you do war every single day with the slanderous voices in your head and you wrestle a bit with the death dark that encroaches around the edges of everything and you’re never the only one: anyone who gets up has to push back the dark.
I’m standing there in front of the mirror.
Standing there, looking right into me and the abyss of the mess of me that I’ll never get all right. And it comes down to this:
Christianity is the only hope for this broken world because there’s no other way for the broken to get the Nails they need to rebuild.
That’s what this week needs, that’s all this week needs most:
More than needing schedules and productivity, this week will need a Savior and prayer.
God’s not asking me to produce– He’s asking me to pray.
God’s not asking me to climb ladders — He’s asking me to kneel and let go.
Right there at the mirror, right at the beginning, the week begins to unfurl in slow, in hope.
And that’s what I whisper into the mirror:
His grace will be more than just sufficient — His grace is guaranteed to actually save.
Time, me, the week, all redeemed and miracles happen in mirrors and to people we know. When we know Christ, we always know how things are going to go — always for our good and always for His glory. The sun flashes blaze in the mirror.
The week has this written all over it: God only allows pain if He’s allowing something new to be born.
And down in the ditch at the end of the lane, I had witnessed it, on the way out to get Monday morning’s mail.
I had stood there with the Food Basic flyer and the hydro bill and the week coming straight head on and I had watched this monarch land.
I had stood there with the mail and the proboscis tongue unfurled into the nectar well and the wings of this king butterfly right ripped open His secret epistle to everything:
Drink the thankful sweet out of each thistle —
because this is how you fly.
And it’s right there at the beginning….
and it’s quite something….
how even at the sharpest edge of things, there are wings.