Last night I was driving home with only fumes left in my gas tank. I was in rush hour traffic moving at 10 miles per hour. I continually prayed that God would let me get to a better part of town before I ran out of gas. Meanwhile I would see cars race around those of us waiting patiently and cutting in before the other lane ended. My frustration level was rising to a boiling point. I made it off the interstate and to a safe gas station. I was home an hour and a half before I would have been if I worked on the hospital floor. The kids and I finished dinner that I started before I left that morning and Peyton sat out for the boys. We worked on everyone’s homework together. I talked to Sierra on the phone, catching up on her day. We went through some pictures to give the duplicates to their dad. And I read books with Truman while Peyton continued her book and Ethan dribbled a ball, something I never expected to see.
I sat in my living room and soaked in another moment that was not monumental, but perfect for me. It was more of a blessing than getting to the gas station. The euphoria was intoxicating. I am complete.
I am not thin, my bills still outweigh my income, I still constantly must monitor my moods to keep away from the dark pit. But last night, this morning, the last couple of months I have been the example I want my children to use when they choose how to live their lives. I want them to be complete within their own context, not measuring themselves against others. I want them to look inside themselves and listen to find what is important to them, whether it is part of the latest fad or centuries old. I want them to excel in being kind to others whether that person is someone they know or a complete stranger, no matter their skin color, regardless of how that person treats them.
I want my love, my example to raise them above the bar of mankind. Because their love have saved me.
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