waiting calm

I walk into the kitchen to hear their chanting. Husband and three year old in unison:

By waiting and by calm you shall be saved. In quiet and in trust your strength lies.

Him, reading aloud the morning's hours. Her, captivated by the colorful narrative of Isaiah, compelled to join in the exercise. This line has captured their imagination, and they dwell on it together. I shuffle through the room quickly, basket of laundry in hand and tears springing to my eyes.

By waiting and by calm you shall be saved. In quiet and in trust your strength lies.
How often do anxiousness, now waiting, business, not calm, fill my heart? I pile the laundry onto our bed, start haphazardly folding, start listing the things that need to get done: stamps at the post office, dinner to a new mom, dishes unloaded and reloaded. There is always more to do, and yet my spirit craves calm, waiting, quiet.

The verse stays with me through the day, rising to my lips. A domino-effect pileup of mishaps making dinner. Spilled milk, full trashcan, babies under my feet. By waiting and by calm you shall be saved.

A missed nap, a fussy car ride, a disagreement over parenting. In quiet and in trust your strength lies.

The evening brings renewal: a deep breath, a long hug, a sense of perspective. A renewed passion for all of this: the mundane and joyful work of caring for small bodies, creating a home for friends and family, seeking beauty in the must unlikely and most obvious places. Finding my calling right here where I am.

And as I settle into the joy that such realization offers, I am surprised that the sacred words that have gently ushered me out of sorrow are still on my lips.

By waiting and by calm you shall be saved. In quiet and in trust your strength lies.

Yes. They are still true in my joy.