I have had a rough week. Or two. I cannot quite put my finger on one single reason why, but I reckon it has something to do with back-to-school craziness and adjusting to teaching again. There are lots of changes around here but I don’t feel like writing about them now. They are nothing serious, but it always takes time to get used to doing new things in new ways. Add a good dose of the old hormones to the mix, and you get a pretty emotional Sumi.
I am not typically given to mood swings, but my emotions have certainly been running the gamut here. Loneliness. Anger. Melancholy. Frustration. Depression. Missing Jenna. Being weepy for no discernable reason at all. I do think that as I approach my mid forties those hormones are stepping up a bit. So I am not taking my current state of mind seriously. I realise it is transcient and I will be myself again very soon.
I found it hard to enter into worship at church tonight though. I have made several faux pas this week, blurted out something that I shouldn’t have, lost my cool with a rude driver in a really over-the-top way (with my kids as witnesses), nursed anger towards my hubby for not being here more, struggled to find my stride in a new class I am teaching at school. My house is a wreck, our family is in desperate need for a better routine, I am not getting around to everything that demands my time. To top it all, I have not been yoked with Jesus and drawing on my relationship with God to see me through. I have been (moodily) going it alone. And failing desperately.
I arrived too late at church to secure my regular spot on the worship team. We have been missing a microphone ever since a concert we had at the church two weeks ago, and there are only three mics for four singers. Until we can get the situation rectified, the one who arrives last misses out, or has to share a mic with another singer. I decided not to share tonight, but to worship off the stage where I could fling my arms out wide and sing freely without the constraints of being a part of the team.
As always, I could feel Jesus tugging at my heart and wooing me to enter into that place of intimate worship with him. But I felt too sullied, too broken, too useless to give in to that tender call. What could Jesus possibly want from miserable old me? Someone who keeps failing at the same old things, over and over and over again? I told him such. I told him that all I could give him was this pitifully weak and unfaithful heart of mine.
He whispered back:
It’s all I want.