Nothing to offer

Do you ever feel like sticky, fly-trap paper?
Weird, I know. Let me explain:

I log on to our online banking to transfer money and pay bills... a little bit of stress and anxiety presses against my heart. I finish and log off and move on to the next thing on my list.

Screeches from the next room reveal that a few of my kids (whose names will remain... un-named?) are, in fact, fighting again. Frustrated, I turn down the heat on the burner, wipe my hands, and head toward them hoping I can deal with the issue before the pan burns.

Someone woke up early from nap time, just as I was walking away from my to-do-during-naptime's and toward a few minutes of soul-rejuvenation. Weariness comes knocking, as I set aside the quiet time I craved to meet the needs of someone a little smaller, and with a few less tools for life.

In just three encounters that were maybe three minutes each, this is what stuck: stress, anxiety, frustration, and weariness.

Sometimes my sticky paper gets full and I call "Halt!!" to my lists, and admit that I need Someone's help. Someone really big, and not... sticky... like me.

And so I turn up my "Jesus music" and get on my knees. Not my proverbial knees, my ACTUAL knees. My usual spot is on the floor in front of my couch, with my elbows poking into the couch cushions and my face down flat, breathing in. He meets me there, my Someone that is big and not sticky.

I begin to pick at the junk stuck to my heart's paper, explaining to Him all the circumstances and situations that came along to get each piece stuck in it's current place. I wrestle, frustrated, to peel off my junk and offer the pieces up to Him because I know He wants them. Weariness comes loose and I hold it up toward Him as hope shines down.

"Here, Father, take my weariness..."

I look down to pick off the next piece to offer and find that a portion of my weariness has stuck back on again. My hands are sticky now too, from grasping at my heart's paper, and my hope begins to feel out of place.

"I don't think I can do this, God. I can't pull it all off, because as I try I cover more of myself in my mess."

Finally my hands lay still at my side, and my arms rest. My knees are still bent, and with nothing in my hands to offer my head finally lifts. No longer am I looking at my own heart, stuck with junk. My head lifts a little more, and with nothing at all to offer, my eyes turn their gaze upon Him. Hope and grace pour down on my upturned face. It feels warm and safe.

"Give the whole thing to me, Daughter.  Yes, I asked you to cast your cares on me, but I want you to give me your whole heart."

He wanted me to give him my whole messy, sticky-papered heart just the way it was. I was trying to separate my cares from my heart before giving them to Him. But my cares and my heart are intertwined, and inseparable on my own strength. In order to truly cast my cares on Him, I needed to cast my heart to Him too!

Casting my cares on Him doesn't mean mustering up my own strength to nobly give anything that feels yucky to God for Him to take away.

It means giving Him all of me.

God can be really fast, ya know. My knees often don't even have time to get sore before He has finished cleaning me up and restoring my heart.

 Note to self: Give your whole heart to God with every breath, every step, every kiss; and the things of earth will grow strangely dim... in the light of His glory and grace.