{This Sacred Everyday} Holly Grantham

{This Sacred Everyday} is back! And today we’re welcoming Holly Grantham. Holly is a new blogging friend whom I’m I’ve only recently discovered. Her prose is rich and deserves to be read aloud. So if you want to slow down and savor, subscribe to her blog and pour some good coffee, friend.

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When the inky night leaks away and the morning glories start their swelling, a familiar humming billows up and I stir.  This melody of sorts, it was being knit together, all the long night.  Like a fairy orchestra, wispy with night dew and moonbeams, it has danced in and around our sleepy heads.  The pink and coral sunrise becomes its crescendo and I wake.

I move amongst the early light, quietly padding across the tile, furtively pouring my coffee, plopping myself in front of a glowing screen.  I have stolen these hours from myself, the ones that once offered the deepest sleep and the most creative dreams, in order to hone a craft.  I come to this space hoping to quell the voices that spin doubt and distrust throughout my head and my heart and my life.  Every morning I pray that the opening of my everything  will bleed truth upon the page and I will find clarity and redemption once again.

That is the plan, at least.

But then dogs bark and brothers kick in their sleep and the household jerks awake and I wearily eke out enough moxie to keep this whole thing turning.  After those two sacred hours of hushed and muted reverie, the following moments can sometimes feel like the prologue to a day-long cacophony.  And I know that I need to get it together and greet the day and the little people with love and joy and maple syrup but that is so much easier thought than done.

Often times, it feels like chaos, actually.  Day-long chaos.  What with the “to-dos” swirling in my head and the urgent pleadings from perfunctory little beings, I find myself floundering more often than is comfortable.

But, as it so happens, much of the richness and beauty of this mortal coil hinges on perspective.  And more often than not, it is the perspective of those little people that I need to embrace, rather than my own.  They see things that I don’t see.

When I look around my house, I see dust and papers and dog hair.  Surfaces.

I see my calendar, scribbled and scratched.  Veneer.

I see the news feeds, the happenings, the infinite whirling.  Darkness.

And often times, if feels like chaos.  Day-long chaos.

But my children, those that are still so fresh from God that to drink them in is to sip of glory, they see it so differently.

They see below the surface.  Their eyes penetrate the shallow veneer.  They look for the light because they are scared of the darkness and in their minds, the former is most definitely stronger than the latter.

In the midst of my chaos they drop anchor with me.  Or rather, they drop anchor for me.

This ship we are sailing is big and strong and beautiful.  Its sails billow with life and we attempt to chart courses by the stars scattered above our heads.

But this ship…it is also unwieldy and awkward and it pitches and dives and can be knavish and noble upon the same swelling wave and why, in the name of all that is holy, was I charged with navigating this beast?  How does one captain chaos?

And then, they drop anchor.

To them, somehow, I am that anchor and they cling to me with a confidence that startles me.

They do not see the whirling dervish of my mind.  They do not know the depth of my worries.  They do not feel the hairy breath of fear that caresses my neck.

They just see me and the weight of that devotion carries us all deep.

And somehow, in those moments, when all becomes stilled and secure and the coursers stop their charging and the waters quiet my heart…I cling. I am not really the anchor.  No, really I am not.  I am simply lit from behind and my silhouette…well, it must be shrouding their vision.

Because I, too, am clinging.

With every bit of strength I have, I cleave to this anchor that my children claim to see in me but that really is from Him and I know it.  It is always all from Him.  Above the surface the waters may roil and wrench or they may flatten and glisten but here, clinging to this anchor, we are safe.