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In which I lament a good cup of coffee gone cold…

I’m awake in the stillness that occurs only in the rare moments when my beautiful children sleep. I argued with myself this morning about the benefits versus the problems involving a few extra moments of rest. Instead of shutting my eyes again, I decided to listen to a sermon while drinking a cup of coffee. I made extra this morning, thinking the husband might need an energy boost. He left the extra.

It must be God.

So I cuddled down in my blankets and turned on iTunes where my podcasts are all stored. Instead of cupping my coffee in my hands like I usually do, I put it up on the shelf behind my head to get comfortably situated.

I then promptly forgot about it…

I know. I know. My readers are probably wondering just how you can forget about a good, hot cup of coffee…

My only excuse is that I’m still tired. Five hours of sleep will do that to a person, especially when they are not restful hours.

The coffee still tastes good…sort of. It’s just like an iced coffee with no ice and nothing to sweeten the bitter flavor after a cup sits and cools for a while.

So not really an iced coffee.

My life kind of gets like that iced/not-iced coffee sometimes. The flavor is still there, hidden beneath bitter and cooling layers. Those bitter and cooling layers could be anything from a serious need for attitude adjustments (both me AND my kids) to lack of sleep (which is mostly my fault and can lead to the whole adjustment of my attitude) to a cold cup of coffee when I get too busy or distracted to remember it. At the risk of sounding shallow, I hate cold coffee.

At the risk of sounding cliched and cheesy, I hate when my life gets cold and bitter.

Fortunately, I usually know the why, what, and how of the situation. In spite of my uncanny knack of returning to that place of stupidity, God did give me enough brains to figure out how to get out of the mess I got myself into in the first place. He’s funny that way. I can almost picture Him chuckling in a sort of exasperated way (kind of like I do when I see my kids make the same, brain-farted choice over and over and over again). I can hear Him say something to the effect of…

“Really? We’re going through THIS again? Well, I’ve got the roadmap and the shovel. Do you need a ladder or should I just help you dig yourself out again? You really should be able to see that hole by NOW, Sarah. After all, you dug it in the first place.” Then He’ll smile and chuckle again. “I love you anyway. You know that, right?”

I wrote a post a while back talking about ruts and digging holes. I’m almost tempted to put that picture on here again…

I think I’ve kind of gotten to the top of the rut again. My attitude has been crazy wicked lately and my kids (and my poor husband) seem to suffer the most.

I’ve realized that having kids and being married just seemed to make me MORE selfish than usual. I know that’s not technically true. Having kids and being married just reminded me of how selfish and self-centered I really am.

Terminal. That’s the word. I’m terminal. But for the grace of God, I wouldn’t even know THAT. But for the Grace of God, I actually have a shovel and a cure should I choose to take them.

I hear the son waking up. Time to start my day!

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