devotion 296, the red chair

She came down tired.  She came down quiet.

My Lily takes a while to blossom in the morning.  Typically she will stop wherever I am and bend her head into my neck for a hug or a kiss and then she moves on.

She used to stop at her kitchen chair, pull out her devotion book and begin to read.

But lately, she has found a new place to rest.  You see, we moved the red chair.

It used to be in the far corner of the family room, but one day not too many days ago, the bigness of the chair hid the little cubbies where Ava stores her toys and books.  Wanting to encourage Ava to put her things away, we replaced the red chair with a smaller one and moved the red chair near the kitchen. 

Lily stopped there this morning, like the last morning and the one before.  She covered herself with her blanket and let her eyelids rise slowly with the dawn of the sun. 

I see her staring.  I see her sitting.  She is not waiting on me for breakfast. 

She is waiting on God for glory.

I realize as I start the eggs how much I enjoy her there.   I rarely sit there, but in seeing her there I inhale a slower day, a quieter moment;  I steal some joy.

I hate to even announce that breakfast is ready so I wait.  I wait for her brother to appear.  He sits at the table; flings open the folders and books that were not finished the night before and will loudly asks what is on the menu. 

The moment in the red chair ends.

I remind the children we need to be early today; early dressed, packed and early to school.  Daddy will be having his surgery today.  We pack up Ava with a stash of toys and books, drop the older children off at school and we head to the surgery center. 

The surgery center has an uncanny resemblance to a drive through restaurant.  We come in, order a new knee and we sit in line.

A nurse appears in our little room while we wait for our order.  She hands me a folder and rapidly explains a thousand different things I will need to remember over the next two weeks.  At some point I realize I have shut my ears off and focus on that folder as being my Bible for the next fourteen days.  And I pause knowing exactly where my children get this same attribute. 

The nurse smiles, finally inhales and hands me my folder.

Brian closes his eyes.  I determine he might be praying and leave him to his intercession.  Ava has picked a video and quietly watches.  In the next lane, only a small curtain separates.  I have not intentionally listened to the conversation but I also could not avoid it. 

I determined the couple was older than us.  They were greeted by their nurse.  She was slower in speech and waiting after every direction she gave for some comment from the husband and wife team.  I listened hoping to learn what I had just missed and I found myself climbing into the red chair.

The first question, “Have you eaten this morning?”  “No,” the wife responded.  

The husband quickly added, “Neither have I,”  he laughed, “it just didn't seem fair.”

The sweetness was a covering in my red chair and I noticed my head leaning closer into my curtain wall.  The nurse went on about the recovery, the pain, the medications, and all that the next days would bring.  The husband spoke again.  “We will have her in a nice comfy chair,” he said.  “I have the TV there and the bathroom is close.”   I could imagine the room in my thoughts.  Evidently they too had a red chair.

The nurse reminded this precious couple that food is required with the medication.  I could sense perhaps my care giving partner was not a gourmet.  “Would turkey taste good?” he gently asked, “on white, with a little mayo?”

I wanted to answer, “yes, definitely! with a diet coke.”  Then I realized, he was not asking me.  The wife softly spoke.  I could see no one, but I could hear her smile.

“That would be lovely.”  My heart agreed.  The nurse thanked them and left their little room.  I imagined their hands clasped together as Brian’s and mine now were.  

Brian had heard them too and he whispered, “That is us in a few years.”

I realized just how tender this moment was; this red chair moment.

I had squeezed this surgery in, it was my morning, then work, then preschool, then homework, but somewhere in there, God placed a red chair.

I sat wondering why exactly I rush about when my Father bids me rest.

I had hours with my husband this morning but I chose at least initially to be present in the future, not in the present.  I was mentally on to the pharmacy and lunch and a million other places, but He, the author of time, bid me both peace and rest.

What race have I ever won by rushing?  What do I gain when my presence is lost?

I want my children to remember moments.  Moments when they watched the sun rise, and moments when they laughed around the supper table.  I hope they will forget the rushing out the door and the loud voice that got them there.

I yearn for more red chair moments.

 Moments to savor love, moments to taste life and moments to reflect on my Savior.

Ava and I leave the surgery center.  The nurse cautions us we have one hour before we must return to speak to the doctor.  In that hour we will get to the pharmacy, eat breakfast and pick up our preschool backpack that we forgot.

I turn to Ava as she buckles herself in and ask her to pray for Daddy.  I want a moment.

She has addressed every prayer for the last two years with one word, Jesus.  But today, today is different, her little voice sings from the back seat as she begins,

 “Lord Jesus….”  And I cry.

She needs Him today.  She needs Jesus to be with her Daddy and she addresses her Jesus anew.  I needed to be in the red chair to hear that.  I needed to take a moment to listen and to pray.  I would have missed it had we rushed and ran and raced. 

He is profoundly good.  He is profoundly present and He is miraculously merciful.   He waits to write the moments on our souls. 

 Find rest, O my soul, in God alone; my hope comes from him. 

Psalm 62:5