These Days I Wonder

I have had days, lately, days where I wonder at the fullness of my share.

Days like last week when I read words like this or this or this and wondered - with my soul shaking - about the the true depths of my spirituality, at just how far I'm willing to walk up that last hill with Christ. I never dove too deep in those moments; I feared I might break my neck in the shallows.

Days like a few weeks ago when I sat amidst my bible study group, a litany of prayers sitting heavily on my soul. I listened to the other women bravely praying aloud for deeply personal intercessions and wondered - with wide-eyed admiration - at their courage to ask for all of us to pray for them. I never spoke my own quiet prayers; I feared the rain from my eyes might warp my armor.

Days like last Sunday when I stepped out of the pew at the end of Mass, genuflected, then turned to leave only to face the smiling face of a woman behind me. I listened to her tell me how beautiful my children are and wondered - with thudding, soul-wrenching gratitude - at the simple truth of her words, at how beautifully perfect in body and soul all three of my children are when so, so many things can go wrong between conception and birth. I thanked her quietly, thinking of all those who want, pray, beg for the gift of children but never receive an answer to their pleas; I kissed my three on their heads as we made our way down the aisle.

Days like today when I followed a link that led me here to another mom's words, words so filled with life and love and hope. Then I read the grimmer words of her stage-3 cancer and I wondered - with utter amazement - at her ability to not just soldier onward but to live, to REALLY live, despite her diagnosis. I am humbled by my own good health and then this thought comes: I owe a death, too. We all do. We all have a stage 3 diagnosis for this life, be it cancer or a car accident or our hearts simply stopping during one last peaceful night's sleep. Knowing this, I wonder, how can we not REALLY live?

And then there are the many days of late when I have opened my laptop, stared at the blank page, and wondered - with fear and trepidation and the relentless voice over in my head that cackles, "No good! No good!" - why my words matter, why I'm blogging, why I'm writing, why I'm even trying. I never find an answer loud enough to shout down the doubt; I close the laptop and walk away.

But most every day, I wonder this: how, when my plate is overfilled with more than my share of blessings, can anything I ever do be enough?

I wonder how I can I better live a life that is centered on faith, fearless in prayer, one that celebrates the bittersweet joy that is motherhood.

I wonder how I can live a life that steps knowingly into the dark fray with courage, a life that blooms instead of withering, stunted by my own small doubts and fears.

These days I wonder.

And I remind myself that prayer is a conversation.

There is a time for me to talk.

And there is a time for me to listen.