My alarm goes off, I groan and with bleary eyes look at the clock.
why? why 6am? it’s entirely too early to get up.
I’m racking my brain trying to figure out if I’ve missed something. What day is it? Where am I? Do I have to be somewhere? Realizing that none of these things is true I realize that I am trying something new. Something called “not rushing out the door to work” mornings.
That was maybe my dumbest idea yet.
Reluctantly I drag my sleepy self out of bed and stumble the two steps to what I affectionately call my chouch. It’s a mix between a couch and chair that I got at Ikea a few years ago. I keep rubbing my eyes, switch on my light and pull my notebook, devotional, and bible onto my lap.
Ugh. What a terrible decision. No way I can keep this up.
c’mon Mueller. just get through this morning. you don’t have to do it again if you hate it that much.
I’m always great at reasoning with myself.
Unsure of where to start I look to the seven passages I laid out the day before. I start journaling my prayer, flip over to my devotional, and slowly my fuzzy brain starts to clear.
I’ve always been the type of girl who wants to have a quiet time in the morning. I have these romantic ideas of the twilight hour with the smell of brewing coffee and the weight of my bible on my lap.
The reality of it is that I’m usually slamming off my alarm, jumping out of bed, throwing on some clothing, hastily putting make up on, throwing covers over my bed, and dashing out the door with breakfast in hand hoping there is still coffee left at the office. The best visual I can give is that of a tornado. That’s what I look like at roughly 7:40am.
But the other day I was having a long time with Papa. Journaling. Asking. Confessing. Wondering. Getting angry. All the things you do when you need to sort out unresolved issues with a beloved. I stuffed the majority of what I was feeling. Wanting to shut it off and ignore it. Now paging denial, party of one.
Because so often I feel like trusting Papa with my deepest desires should be easy. It should come as naturally as breathing. I wake up and smile and walk through the day with rainbows and butterflies. I don’t even have to think about trusting Him. I just do. But again, where fantasy and reality differ is what that actually looks like day to day.
And lately I’ve been failing miserably. Sure, at the end of the day I trust Him. Fully. Completely. Absolutely without hesitation. But the “day to day” and “the end of the day” worlds can be lightyears apart. When I’m sitting in my room alone, plagued by doubts, and insecurities, and fears, and frustrations, and loneliness, it doesn’t come easily to trust Papa.
My flesh deems it unnatural and dangerous. There’s no control. No power. No security. Because my abilities and achievements don’t matter at all in this situation. So I free fall into a world where I have to hope that my hope in Papa cradles my landing and my bones don’t shatter when the ground rises up too quickly.
Which leads me back to 6am. My muscles have never gotten strong from being still. They atrophy. Freeze up. Cramp. And sometimes leave me at a disadvantage. Likewise is my trust in Papa. I fool myself into thinking if I surround myself with fellow believers and community and church and “good things” I’ll continue to trust Papa maybe through osmosis. I let myself get swept up in apathy. I stop wrestling my flesh to the ground in order to make it submit. So when the tears come in the middle of the night or on the drive home and I wonder why it feels so hard to believe in Papa’s goodness, I realize its because I have forgotten Papa’s goodness.
How can my trust muscles work when I’ve stopped making them move? Working at trust isn’t failing. Disciplining myself to reactively trust Papa isn’t legalism. Training to stop an emotional spiral with the truths of Papa’s heart for me isn’t shameful. How did I let it become that? Laziness? Pride? Shame? All of these things and more and less?
So I all know is that in the mornings at 6am when I’m groaning outloud about the two steps I have to make from my bed to my chouch those could be the very best two steps I take all day. Especially for the moments like now when nothing about Papa feels safe or secure or reliable. Those are the days when 6am is worth every single groan.