Rough Sketch Ideals

10 mintues after running through my usual list of ideas and concerns while laying in bed this a.m., I finally felt like it was acceptable to open my eyes. Looking to see if Nate was still in the room and were Autumn was lying – both were found and both I found amusing: We currently sleep on 5 felted wool layers on the floor. She was laying at the corner with one arm extended onto the to floor and one foot propped-up against the opposite leg: full cheeks, messy puffballs, super cute. Nate was directly underneath her which is also amusing. : )

My mind went back to baby’s positioning in my womb and my concerns about it, even at only 27 weeks. Autumn was double footling breech, so this is a biggy for me.
I start taking those concerns to Him even though it feels “off.” Much like I’m a dud of a daughter who mostly just disappoints while choosing her own thing, except when I come back asking for something I need.

Ouch.

It’s unfamiliar territory, truly. I rarely felt like I disappointed my earthly (adoptive, grand)parents – they were thrilled that I tended to follow the rules, went to church, got good grades, and showed no interest in parties, substance abuse, or the “wrong crowd.” It was another story with my bio mom – before age 13 I can’t say I felt she saw me much at all, one of the many downsides to being a mother with a drug addiction.

Alright, where was I?

Oh yeah, being a screw up daughter (or at least feeling that way. It’s a weird dynamic having 3 parents influencing your idea of God and how you relate to Him). It’s not that I can’t have another c-section – yes, a healthy mom and healthy baby are my highest request – but as a girl strongly tied to her ideals, oh how badly I want this to be a smooth transition for my family, for Autumn.

So I focus on praying for that instead – not for a certain type of birth, or even what the transition should look like according to me (or the books and articles I’ve read), but really simply — for grace.

I keep coming back to ideals and how big they are for me. A snapshot of something my heart can’t let go of – it feels like I *need* life to be a copy-for-copy version of the picture I’m holding in my head. But lying here in this dark room, sunlight streaming in from an open door, I start comparing ideals to grace instead. My faith seems so frail at this point – knowing what I believe but not fully resting in it, struggling to trust that those beliefs will hold true for me, for my littles – I try walking past those doubts and looking anyway:

It seems like God’s grace, His “favor” is a better thing to pray for, hope for, in an unpredictable life that I have so little control of because, unlike my snap-shot ideals, it can surprise me. The ‘picture’ can instead be more of a rough sketch that allows for flexibility, change, and an altogether different outcome. Why? Well – and this is where the ground feels shakier, but I’m stepping on to it regardless: If God is who He says He is, than His grace has always been there for me, even during the hardest crashes from my ideals. Wave after wave, He’s worked, redeemed, weaved, ordained, and (in this broken world) allowed – because of His interest, care, and investment for me. All steeped in favor.

(“Fa-vor”: an attitude of approval or liking; an act of kindness beyond what is due or usual).

So instead of clinging to that snaphot, the non-artist attempts to sketch. I want a picture, and it wouldn’t be fair or better to not have one: sketching out my hopes is an act that acknowledges that they’re there and very real, instead of trying to dismiss them. Maybe it even honors the idea that He might have planted them deep in Morgan soil. My part is praying for Him to fill it – my life with it’s various pictures, canvases, sculptures, and pages – with His grace more than praying for the picture to come to fruition.

There – the power ideals have over me are been a bit wounded now. Instead of a static, rigid picture; perfection so rarely attained – a rough sketch flooded with grace means that the real-life outcome can meet it, surpass it, or fall dismally short of it but none of that would have the final say. If I leave room for God’s grace, and start to want it more than the ideals I have for my life, than hope can win out over disappointment. There’s still white left on the canvas and room for His strokes to change how it looks. Since His grace is more important than the canvas I’m holding, there’s just enough opening inbetween my fingers for Him to take it, and even replace it with an entirely different piece of artwork.

Inhaling and exhaling now. Trying to push these ramblings into my core so they stay with me longer than a blog post.

*   *   *

Nathan and I were reading this weekend about ISFJs in childhood and how important it is for them to have predictability; to have an idea of how their day will go, or to at least be given as much detail as the parent can give.  —-That was not how my 1st 5 years went. And instead of dismissing that time because of how young I was and the large gaps in my memory, I’m learning how deeply it affected me and impacted my subconscious — how I view the world and what is easy or hard for me to believe in my faith.

There’s a lot. A lot needed, a lot of room to grow, a lot of work to be done, a lot farther to go.

But today, there’s sketching:

{Wow, look at my head! I had no idea it was that big.}

Morgan (Loves To) Reid