Every Day the Same

In the days before Christmas a mysterious thumping arose from the basement. The stifled whispers that accompanied it said that some big project was afoot.

As we sat in the living room Christmas day and opened our gifts one by one, the kids informed me with twinkly grins that one particular package - one in my pile - had to wait until last. Our family takes our sweet time opening gifts, so the mysterious Last Gift sat at my feet enticingly for quite some time before I was finally allowed to reach for it.

The kids exchanged nervously excited glances and then sat quietly as I peeled back the paper. A notebook emerged, black with gold hand-drawn designs on it.

"That's not the real gift," my daughter said. "There's more."

The kids bounded out of their seats and commanded me to follow them. They led me down into our basement. It's what I guess you would call a finished basement: white cement-block walls, peel and stick tiles on the floor, some odds and ends furniture, a bookshelf or two and a ping pong table.

Until recently there had been a monument of whatnots stacked in the back corner, boxes and tubs and unused end tables and who knows what. My cleaning-fairy offspring had cleared away all the clutter. In its place was a small wooden desk, one I'd picked up at a second hand store months ago with the intent of making it my writing desk and then promptly abandoned.

The desk was now tucked cozily into what had become an appealing writing corner. The kids had stocked it with writing essentials - pencils, erasers, paper, a corkboard for tacking up ideas, baskets of books, candles, and several crafty hand-made decorations.  A string of white Christmas lights wound among the cups of pens and Sharpies, and a giant, slightly-smushed gold bow sat in the center of the desk.

My son shrugged. "We thought you needed a place to write. You're good at it. And we believe in you."

I listened with blurry eyes as the kids pointed out all the little details and told me how they'd made this and decided on that. They were so excited to be able to do something special for their mom. And me, I was all wrapped up in loving my kids and being moved by what they had done for me.

A week later I sit at that little wooden desk, a fresh new year in hand, looking toward the future and wondering if I'll be able to live up to their expectations.

Look at the past, after all. Sure, there have been successes along the way. But so many failures, too. Goals haven't been met. Dreams have been abandoned. Visions of who I want to be lost in the flurry of living and resolutions to do better trompled by complacency.

On New Year's Day anything is possible. Many of us wake on the first morning of the year full of forward momentum and optimism, thinking of what could be, breathing in the clear air of a fresh start. But that positive energy never seems to last. Reality creeps in and climbs up your back to hiss into your ear that it won't happen. None of it. You've failed before and you'll fail again. The start of a new year is just the start of another round of nothing changing.

I sit at my little desk and stare at the keyboard and don't know where to start. The kids believe I can do great things. Maybe I won't. Maybe...maybe I can't.

My eye travels along the length of the strand of white lights and over to the bookshelf at my elbow. My daughter has made a little painting for me, tucked into a white frame. An adorable little sheep peeks out over the edge of the frame, surrounded by the first words of the song that my mom chose to have sung at her funeral. "I am Jesus' little lamb. Ever glad at heart I am."

My eyes bunch up as my mind sings through the rest of the first verse. My shepherd guides me...well-provides me... I pause at the second to last line. "Loves me every day the same."

Loves me every day the same. Loves me...the same...every day.

On January first, when I am full of hope and spitfire. On January second, when my shoulders droop with the fear of trying. On June the 23rd, August 14th, November 9th, whatever I am doing, succeeding or not so much, marching forth fearlessly or cowering in a corner...whatever the day, whatever the me, I am loved and accepted exactly as much as the day before because of Jesus.

Yep, I'm going to fail some this year. There are disappointing days ahead. I don't like that. But the sweet little lamb peeking over the edge of the frame reminds me that those not so great days won't do a thing to change my Father's love for me.  ...Neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come...nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. Romans 8:38-39

I'll be honest - I don't think He's the only one who won't stop loving me if I don't get it just right. I rather suspect that those bright-eyed sprites with their big gold bow don't give a rat's patootie whether I write a best-seller. They just love their mom, every day the same.

Right back atcha, guys. Right back atcha.

First published in The Alpena News on January 6, 2018