All I knew as the glass slipped out of my hand was how tired I was.
It shattered and scattered, throwing splinters, splatters and shards of glass, sticky soda and ice in a hundred directions. Across the hardwood floor, under the fridge and sofa.
Taking care of a household by myself (where normally three people contribute) had worn me down. Add to that the heightened concern of a mother trying to assess and monitor my son's flu, getting up several times in the nights since Monday to make sure his fever is not out of control. Powerless to assist my husband who was suffering from an intestinal bug. Pressure to complete all the interviews, writing assignments and leadership roles of the week.
I stood staring at the mess for a moment, calculating the damage and the time for cleanup. It was just too much.
I sat down and wept. Wailed, really.
Then I heard my husband as he takes paper towel to sop up the pop, pulls the vacuum out, moves the furniture, begins picking up the broken fragments. When the job was nearly done, he covered his mouth and ran for the washroom. Dear man. Sick as a dog and he gets up to help clean my mess.
The mess of my heart isn't quite so shattered any more.
*Philippians 2: "Have this mind in you that was in Christ Jesus... who became a servant"