I’m wrestling this morning.
I wrestled myself from bed. I wrestled breakfast onto the table and the boy out the door. I wrestled Legos from my Baby’s iron grip.
And I’m wrestling right now at seven-thirty in the morning for a chance to sit at my computer and get this down while it’s in my head. I’m wrestling against a four-year old girl who wants me to make paper airplanes and a baby who’s lifting up my shirt enough to show a sliver of warm Mommy belly to lay his head on while I write.
I feel like I spend most of my day wrestling for rest.
And I find a bit when I stop and admire a drawing of a strawberry birthday cake with three candles, when I pick up Baby and kiss him in the hollow under his cheek again and again until it smells more like me than him.
There’s an honor in wrestling, you can’t wrestle from the next room. You have to be close, all hands and bodies in hard contact.
And I’ve seen the blessings that come from staying, remaining close in vulnerable friction, from wrestling through frustrating friendships and difficult times in marriage, refusing to let go until some glimmer of life comes out. And, if God is there, life comes out.
For, God is in the business of resurrection. That’s all he does, creates life from nothing, new creations all day long, by his voice, with his breath. But you have to stay close in frustrating openness and sometimes in the dark silence of doubt.
Like Job who wrestled with God until he was answered. Like my baby who has finally gained access to the coveted lap. Like my daughter whose elaborate missives I am now transcribing unto the back of birthday cake drawings and along the length of paper airplanes.
“Birthday cakes, strawberries, hugs and kisses. Flowers and hearts. Love you well. Camping trip. Can you write me a card back for my whole family? Love.”
And isn’t that part of the covenant promise of relationships? Doubts and questions are brought within the context of the relationship first.
Which means God gets my struggles for solitude, identity, and satisfying rest first. That’s the deal. He wrestled his own humanity and death itself for the privilege.
Which begs the question, what exactly does that look like?
Wrestle, wrestle, wrestle…