My husband is Saint James, the Patient.  We are in the young parenting, third of life crisis mode where life travels a thousand miles an hour, there’s constant poop to clean up, never enough money, always work looming, a whirlwind house after we clean, dinner at 9 PM with two kids under three (judge away), omnipresent mountains of laundry, identity crisis “Is this what life is, really?” and did I mention the constant poop? phase.

When I get a million and one (hyperbole is my thing, okay?) questions of “Why?  What now?  What are you doing?” before noon time, and Saint James comes home from work and asks me “What are we doing tonight babe?” I forget that he is the man I stood at the altar with, pledging a life of love and service to each other before my Creator.  I confess, in these times, I see him as a third child needing direction and my blood sworn enemy.  Oh, for sure he’s earning that sainthood title with ever growl and snarl that hurls itself from my curled lips.

How selective our memories can be, moment to moment.

The all remembering Facebook “memories” reminded me that this week three years ago was the day I left my sweet boy for the first time while I returned to work.  Although I was leaving my seven week-old in the arms of my all too capable life counselor, my heart ached.  I cried to God, asking that He would someday allow me to be the one who stayed home with him.  This week, a year ago, I found out that the child with the beautiful heart, was a girl.  The child that I had no idea how to provide for as benefits changed at my workplace and Saint James took a new position at his company.  Again, I cried to God, asking that He would somehow provide.  And maybe allow me to be the one who stayed home with them.  Some way.  Some how.

I went to a late breakfast this past week with a beloved friend, my spiritual mentor.  She asked me about life and reminded me of the joy of answered prayer.  After much begging to God and financial finagling, personal uncertainty and a very challenging summer, I am staying home with my babies.

Three years ago, I had cried to her at a work lunch that I would never be able to stay home.  And here I was, crying to Saint James,to please watch the babies for just an hour so I could think straight without constant questioning.  And poop.

I find myself playing the role of the Israelites more and more.  Psalm 105 says “They asked, and He brought quail, and gave them bread from heaven in abundance.  He opened the rock, and water gushed out; it flowed throughout the desert like a river.”  (v41 ESV)  God performed miracles for these slaves freed from captivity.  He answered those years of begging, crying prayers.  He met them in the finagling,the uncertainty and the challenges.  And they complained.  With growls and snarls that hurled themselves from their curled lips.

We need to remember.  To give thanks.  In every season.  For answered prayers.  For unanswered prayers.  Or prayers we think are unanswered, but are more “wait and see.”

Because it’s not answered or unanswered prayers that make us happy.  It’s not getting what we want, or think we want, that brings us joy.  It’s the relationship with Father, who knows our hearts and transforms us.  Hebrews 12 says, “Let us lay aside every weight, and the sin which doth so easily beset us, and let us run with patience the race that is set before us, looking unto Jesus the author and finisher of our faith.” (v1 KJV)

Day to day, I’m trying to adjust my eyes.