daily bread

I need to write this down before I forget these important life and Lenten-lessons I'm learning as a result, mostly, of Moriah.

I tossed and turned all through last night. Yesterday I received a job offer--to teach adult ESL part-time through a community program in Quincy--and all night, I kept worrying. Start on Monday? With what materials? With what activities? Who would watch Moriah? How would I fit 15 hours of teaching into Moriah's life, anyway? And more pressing...in the morning (that would be this morning), I had Down syndrome infant group followed by a 1:30 meeting at said agency in Quincy to sign paperwork, gather curricula materials...and I had no one to watch Moriah (despite calling nearly 10 people that night) and no one to pick up the boys from school.

The morning eventually came and by the time I got out of a bed, I was nearly in a panic. Those of you who have never had the experience of a panic attack will not be able to relate to this at all, but others of you will know exactly what I mean when I say my chest hurt, and I felt like I couldn't breathe real well, and I would have been pretty darn sure I was having a heart attack, except I know a pre-panic attack now when I feel one (and gone to the ER enough times for "undetermined chest pains" to know, too). I've had a few of them since Moriah's birth, starting with the night Moriah was born, and now and then they creep up on me again, a horrible and awful feeling. This morning I got the kids ready for school, made a few other desperate phone calls for a babysitter for Moriah, and began getting ready for my 1:30 meeting in Quincy.

So I'm doing the usual...buttoning my shirt, digging out dress shoes, making bottles, blow drying my hair. And the entire time, I keep feeling this pain in my chest, and I just keep talking to myself (out loud, and sometimes quietly), and then, mostly to God. "Give me today my daily bread" I kept repeating, over and over like a mantra. I need something. Something real, and actual, like bread. I need a babysitter. I need peace. I need the tight chest to go away. I need to feel like I can go back to work, because I really do want to, and in so many ways, need to. I need to feel like today can work out, so that I can trust that next week, when I start my job, will work out, too, and I'll have babysitters and dinner ready and my sanity, still intact, by week's end. Daily bread. Please. God. Bread?

By 10 o'clock, the tight chest was gone. I was feeling like it really was going to work out. Worst case scenario, I'd schlepp Moriah with me, sling and all. Or something. But it was going to work out. Daily bread, I kept telling myself. It's only 10. I'm not leaving until 12:45. There's plenty of time for what I need to be provided, when I need it (incidentally, the very meaning behind Moriah's name, and the reason we chose it that morning in the Recovery Room, because we had a profound sense we would experience with her many moments when we would be desperate to trust that God was really going to provide what we would need). Moriah, of course, was smiling away. She certainly wasn't worried. I tried to follow suit, setting out coffee and sugar and cream for my friends from the Down syndrome group (we visit together once a week now).

And here's what I really want to get on paper today: it happened. It really happened. In the middle of conversation, babysitting as a general topic came up, and before I knew it, the group had decided to put Moriah in their car, take her back to one of their houses with all of them, and stay together throughout the afternoon with all the babies and Moriah, all together. A play group, extended. Sans me. A provision. A support group extraordinaire.

This happened about 45 minutes before I had to leave. It was decided, and they began packing up all three babies with Down syndrome like the ultimate DS family (it really was touching) and off they went! And I looked at the clock and realized I had EXTRA time. Time to get in the car, get to Quincy, get a cup of tea, and think about my first ESL class on Monday. I wrote pages of ideas, wrote a list of questions for my meeting with my new boss...and looked oh-so-prepared for my meeting when it happened.

But there are a few subtler things that were just as cool as that big provision. First, my brother-in-law who delayed his own return home today (he teaches here in our town) to get my boys and hang out with them until I got home at 4. So cool. Then, on my way to Quincy I realized...it was raining. Not just rainy, but foggy and dark and pouring rain, and I swear, it was not raining at my house when I left, which might explain why I left without a raincoat. It might, except it's been raining all week. Not sure what I was thinking, but I thought, I hope I don't show up at this meeting looking soggy and obviously forgetful (who doesn't wear a raincoat on the third rainy day of the week?). I'm not saying this was God, or whether it was just dumb luck, but I sure was pscyhed when there was a break in the rain--it had STOPPED--for the few minutes it took me to walk from the parking lot to my tea, and then again from my tea to my meeting. And, another cool provision: the whole day, I had been worried sick. It's so hard, to be a mom and work for a single boss...always, I feel the tension (that lies mostly within me, I know) of wishing I could give more at work, that I'm not living up to expectations (mostly my own), wondering at this strange thing called motherhood, which I do at times resent for the many distractions it can pose to a working woman, let's be honest. And I do love to work. So anyway, I was so, so relieved not to walk into my new boss' office (who I had figured to be single and without kids, given the lack of ring on her finger) with Moriah slung on my hip. And then, what do you know, just before I was leaving the meeting, the new boss ends up telling me she just finished adopting a toddler from Ethiopia! So then I'm feeling sheepish, a truly hilarious and humbling moment. Worrying about not appearing too "mommy-ish" (read: interests divided) and finding out my new boss is a newer mommy than I am! A day come full circle. We ended up swapping funny adoption-adjustment stories and I left so happy that my personal life and my work life are not going to be at odds. Of course. Of course they're not. Provision.

So while we're on the topic, I'm going to be bold enough to ask for another provision tomorrow. Moriah is going in for her follow-up EEG tomorrow. She needs to be sleep deprived; I put her to bed late tonight and have to get her up a couple hours early (read: 4:30 am???) tomorrow and try hard not to let her have a morning nap...all so she'll sleep through her 12:30 EEG. Pray she sleeps. That would be tomorrow's provision--a successful test. I have my suspicions about her seizures (am not sure if what I've noticed this week are seizures, or a regression, or both), and we just need a good test that provides answers, and if needed, more treatment.

I can't look farther ahead than that. Moriah might have a seizure disorder flaring up again, but all I can do is ask for tomorrow's needs. "Each day has enough trouble of its own." You know who said that? Jesus. And that cracks me up. Because it's so awfully true, and maybe one of the wisest things he said.

So...off to bed, an EEG appointment...and, this weekend, a Lenten/birthday retreat with a dear friend. I trust I will encounter God in the spaces of time in these coming days, and have more room and words with which to thank him for these Moriah-days, these given-when-needed moments. Daily bread goes stale when it's not requested new each day.