If I tried to catalogue the worth of this day, how would I do it? By the number of times I lost my patience? Or the number of times I didn't? By the moment I said yes to being a young boy's horse and paid for it with my knees, or the moment I said don't get another thing out of the kitchen or you won't eat for the rest of the day? By the things I thought about, the things I tried not to think about, the things I refused to think about, the things I should have thought about? By the number of times I saw the light hit a certain way and thought, that's beautiful. Or the number of times I saw the light hit a certain way and interrupted it like the paparazzi? By the drifting pattern of wanting to live each moment like it was the showcase of heaven, or the subsequent moments of forgetting altogether that the weight of my words and actions echo into eternity? Would I catalogue it as a day lived by faith, or the focus of self?
Of course it was a mixture. Of course it wasn't tidy. Thank goodness for stories about prodigals and proud sons, about men of valor who had weak knees, about women who sacrificed in love and then sought for some approval. I find myself and not a few of my people in all those stories. Thank goodness for Good Fathers, working worth into the worst of us.