I came across this little poem by Thomas Browne and just loved it--
"If thou could'st empty all thyself of self,
Like to a shell dishabited,
Then might He find thee on the ocean shelf,
And say, 'This is not dead,'
And fill thee with Himself instead.
But thou art all replete with very thou
And hast such shrewd activity,
That when He comes He says, 'This is enow
Unto itself--'twere better let it be,
It is so small and full, there is no room for Me.'"
I'm not sure what it was about this poem that stopped me in my tracks today, maybe the idea of not leaving any room for God in the midst of the busyness and trappings of my life.
It was an early start to the day, Mr. Sam decided to wake up at 4:20 am and never fell back asleep. To borrow a term from my dear friend Rebekah, "Mommy Monster" raises her ugly head and growls at anyone and everyone at that hour. I hate starting off that way, crabby and mean, and it felt good to stop and mull this over.
To push away the self, to leave room to be filled with the gifts God has promised us:
That is what I need to be working toward, leaving room for Him to sweep through, to come and fill up all my holes and cracks, giving me joy for the day.