I’ve had a week to think about this prompt, a week to mull over the direction I want to go. I’ve had a week to start and stop short stories, to write bits about myself and my adventures with the moon. None of it has worked, none of it at all. And all this time I’ve had a whisper in my heart on what I need to write about, and I’ve been avoiding it because it’s a harder subject, because it’s something hard for me to write. So here it goes.
I am the moon. The moon’s light is not its own. Like me, it waxes and wanes, sometimes it goes dark. Like me, sometimes it is present during the day, during the lightest times. And like me, sometimes it waits until the very last moment to peak around the ridge. I’m not always that way; I’m not always the person I should be. I’m snarky and sarcastic and think terrible things and sometimes verbalize them. I’m impatient and judgmental and I really don’t like to share. I really want to be good, I really want to be a full reflection of the Son, but I’m not always that way. I forget. I go dark. I let my mouth move against my heart and misrepresent myself at the possibility of a joke or a laugh. I’m imperfect in all the worst ways. If it wasn’t for the Son, I’d be dark all the time. I’d be a shadow in the sky. I would be there, I would be present, but I’d be without worth.
The Lord is my light and my salvation. I shouldn’t have to remind myself of that fact, but I do. When the cat has knocked my peppercorns off the stove and they’re scattered all over the floor and the vacuum won’t get them up and my husband is blaming me because the lid was only sort of on instead of screwed tightly I forget that I’m supposed to love and snap at him. When after spending thirty minutes sniffing outside the dog comes in and pees on the carpet after being in the house for zero seconds I get frustrated, instead of being understanding. When it’s two in the morning and my baby wants to nurse for the umpteenth time to comfort away a scary dream I sometimes question why I wanted to be a mother at all, instead of relishing the time I get to spend with my baby in my arms.
All these things, all these moods and changes, these phases, are part of life. They’re part of being human, part of being imperfect. I won’t always be full, I know that. I won’t always be happy, my soul will reach desolation. But I know that there will be times of gladness again, that God is always there. He is the center, He is all of me.