I am a doer. I am always in motion. Because there is always something to do. Especially with two little girls {who are five and almost-three}.

At least that’s how it seems when I am in motion. While doing one thing, my mind {which is also in constant motion} takes stock of things and begins planning what I need to do next. It’s a revolving mental To Do list. Which is in addition to the running written-out To Do list that I update often.

I suppose it gives me a sense of progress. Of accomplishment. Of importance.

There is a song by Steven Curtis Chapman, One Heartbeat at a Time, that hits the mark in my psyche all too well. It’s a song for moms and about moms and about how their time is spent taking care of tiny babes. The heart-piercing line says, “You fall into bed when you run out of hours and wonder if anything worth doing got done…”

How many times have I wondered that?

More often  than I care to admit. I think it’s a difficult thing to avoid in our culture. The need to do in order to be. For some reason, it’s not enough simply to be. To be still. To be loved. To be alive.

And when I became a stay-at-home-mama, I think my need to do grew exponentially. Like I had to justify who I was now by doing more.

Over the last five years, I’ve managed to be a little less obsessed with getting things done. A little. A hair less than a little. But it’s something I am continuing to work on. Well, was continuing to work on.

As of two days ago, when I fractured the fibula of my right leg, working on being content to just be, rather than do, became a whole lot, well, simpler. Simpler because until further notice, I cannot do anything. At all.

Not only can I not check things off of my To Do list, I cannot do much for myself. Or my girls. Or my husband. Or myself.

This is not easy for me to accept. I am fiercely independent. I am incredibly stubborn. I am a wee bit prideful.

And, I am uncomfortable feeling vulnerable. Feeling needy. Feeling like a burden.

I don’t like asking for {or accepting} help.

But I don’t have that option at the moment.

A boot cast and crutches preclude me from carrying anything. My almost-three-year-old. A plate of food from the kitchen to the dining room. My computer from the table to the couch. Just about everything I do requires that I ask someone – my husband – to help me.

This is not easy for me.

But I think that it is good for me.

From the first few moments after I felt the surge of pain and had to crawl up the outside stairs to get back into my house, I’ve had Romans 8:28 bouncing around my mind {for God works all things together for good for those who love him, who are called according to his purpose}.

I think that I am getting a chance to loosen my grip on the need To Do in order to be. I think that I am getting a chance simply to be. To be still. To be loved. To be alive.

To be made new. Yet again.

And that is an amazing gift. For me. And for my {broken} marriage.


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