Angel of Mercy

I had a hard day yesterday.

While I am enjoying the reality of two vs one, the change of going from the singular to the plural in children continues to cause me a bit of emotional setback—especially on the days when the routine that I so love to maintain is thrown to the wind and I attempt to simply survive . . . Yesterday was a perfect example of this. By 3pm I had made two pots of coffee—both of which simmered and burned before I enjoyed even a single cup. Down the drain I poured them. Such is the new chaos that rules in my home. While I tried to keep a stiff upper lip, I confess to failure in this regard and as Ella finally napped in her car seat on top of the kitchen table and Caleb absorbed himself in"Blue's Clues," I allowed myself a little wallow in tears of self-pity.

But I am heard, and I am not alone. This Truth, God reminded me of today. Up to my knees in laundry that, while clean, had grown to a monstrous pile of unfolded chaos; and jumping from said pile to fussy daughter in an attempt to both sooth her and actually accomplish something; a knock sounded at my door. I sighed, brushed my hair out of my face, and hoping that whoever it was forgave my appearance, I ran to answer. . .

Opening the door, I found an Angel. Truly. She came in the form of a friend of mine (who's name I'll leave unsaid as I have not asked her permission to relate this story), and in her hand she carried a venti cup of coffee from Starbucks. "To make up for the burned pots yesterday," she said with a smile. Hugging me tightly, she whirled, and was gone. And I was left standing on my doorstep, coffee in hand, and tears streaming down my face—given the gift of a renewed, refreshed faith.