Most of my days see me existing in a state of beyond-ness. I am beyond tired. Beyond frustrated. Beyond stressed. Beyond exasperated.
My baby won't stop grabbing my fingers for even the five minutes of writing this post. It is beyond aggravating.
I woke this morning to my stomach grumbling: beyond hungry.
I look around our apartment, boxes piled everywhere, flat surfaces covered in detritus I haven't yet sorted, having not yet decided what to keep, what to trash, how to pack it: it is beyond chaos.
My food sensitivities continue to confound us. I am beyond perplexed. When I eat something I should not, the reaction is beyond uncomfortable, beyond painful. My post-partum depression/mood symptoms have returned. It appears nut butter is an offender. I had cashew butter for breakfast. It has rendered me beyond the limits of my patience.
I cling desperately to the last shreds of sanity and patience, thoroughly unwilling to concede defeat.
I am not yet beyond hope.
Because I look at my family, in the moments when I steel myself and breathe deeply, seeking peace, seeking grace, and I am beyond joy. In the midst of the screaming entropy that is this life most days, my heart expands.
Because yesterday, as I went to lay my sleeping baby down for her nap, she turned, curling her body onto mine, throwing her arm across my chest, pinning me down and I took it as the divine invitation that it was. To rest. To take ease. To rejoice in the singular beauty that is a napping child, soft and warm and breathing, all goodness and innocence and total abandon.
Because I was beyond tired, beyond frustrated, beyond stressed.
And She gave me rest.