Strength...

Today was one of those days when I prayed for strength.  A roll out of bed, hobble to the mirror, splash some water on your face, Holy Spirit, please give me Your strength today days.

But not the usual strength I pray for almost daily.  That strength is emotional, mental.  A resilient strength that allows me to answer 2,683 questions and read the same four books over and over and still over again.  That strength is the energy to spend nap time cooking dinner, picking up flashcards, wiping banana off the floor instead of watching the last episode of Project Runway (which was good, by the way).  The strength of endurance to end the day with giggles and tickles and bubbles instead of nagging and tears and frustration.

No, today was a literal prayer for strength.

To pick up a snugly 23 pound, warm still dreary with sleep almost fourteen-month old blond little man and carry him all the way to the kitchen and his high chair.  To enjoy and relish the feeling of his face pressed up against my neck instead of fearing the feeling of my arms giving way.  To fix his milk and cut his fruit putting his need for food far above my need to sit down and rest.

Taking a deep breath of relief after dropping off the World's Largest Personality Housed in a Tiny Three Year Old at school.  Celebrating the joy and excitement in her eyes, the way her little arms wrapped around my legs for a good bye hug.  And for just that moment not questioning if I could make it back upstairs and to the car without my legs giving out entirely.

Remembering just a week ago praying for the Lord to keep running with me just one more mile to hit my longest run yet, six miles.  Now praying for the Lord to keep walking with me through the store to buy diapers, wipes and yes, more bananas to get dropped on the floor.  Being overwhelmed with gratitude that my Father will both run with me on good days and walk with me on not so good days.

Fighting the tears in the car singing, "You Are I Am" and totally believing with every inch of my soul that He tells the dead to breathe and He can heal whatever this is I'm fighting.  Asking for more strength to talk with the doctor again, for the Holy Spirit to share every detail about the symptoms and for me to listen and actually hear what the doctor says.  Because in my own strength I would come into every appointment with my own diagnosis and expectations instead of simply allowing symptoms to speak for themselves.

Watching my two miracles play with their daddy and loving how they glow in his presence.  Wanting to play too but knowing I would miss the chance to watch and say Thank you, Father, for this man, for my children's earthy father and for how they all love one another.  Grateful for the chance to catch a tiny glimpse of how Jesus must smile when we come to Him just by watching my own children eager to spend time with Chris.

Tomorrow, it will likely start out much the same.  Roll out of bed, hobble to the mirror, splash some water on my face and pray for strength.  What kind of strength, I can't say.  My guess, based on past experience, is the usual kind.  The kind to make it through outfit selection and picky eating and bickering over, well, every toy we own.  

But should tomorrow be another day of praying for physical strength, I am certain my Father will show up and carry me through the day.  Just as He did today and every day before that.  

And I will be grateful.