capacity

My baby sleeps next to me and I watch the peace of his face and soft hair, listen to the breath of God move through his nostrils, small like mine.  He had a play date this morning - 3 hours with his friends and their mamas at an indoor play center, hiding from the rain.  His dad and I did work together, preparing to teach next week on things that make us feel like children.  My baby, nearly 15 months now, apparently climbed things and needed to be coaxed down, scavenged for food scraps under tables and hugged a few children he didn't know.  He now sleeps soundly.  May he always be himself.

And I struggle with my capacity these days - observing and comparing myself to other moms; feeling the pressure of growing babes taking over my body from both sides, teaching opportunities that require lots of preparation time, always a house to clean more than I want to, always a meal plan to make and defend from take-away kebabs threatening a coup.  A husband to love, empathize with and care for.  Always more than I can do and still feel sane, or breathe.  Never enough quiet, rarely enough sleep.  I'm not happy with my hair.  I haven't combed it in years.

And somehow I carry a treasure.  It's not even just this flopping night-owl 2 pounds of baby in my belly (although it is that too).  It's treasure that I can't run from, can't disqualify myself from, can't lose responsibility of - although I forget.  I too often forget.

I'm an earthen vessel, carrying dreams and creation and hope in a crumbling, dusty, incapable frame - arms weak and too full, heart usually broken and longing, patience meager.  Somehow, despite my poor track record and fears of things to come, I've been called worthy to carry treasure.   This confession saves me, and my capacity does not define my worth, no matter what everyone else says.