I think I have mentioned before that my littlest boy, Micah, and I love to pretzel. In the predawn darkness we snuggle it out in mommy and daddy’s bed after he wakes up.  When I have to quit the warm comfort of the bed and get ready for the day, he comes with me. Stuffed bear clutched in one hand and stuffed puppy in the other. Pacie firmly in place, he toddles after me squinting into the bright bathroom lights and I plop him down on top of the toilet lid. It’s his morning spot. He sits there to be with me. Whatever I am doing.

He doesn’t know what my day holds or how stressed I may be about an upcoming meeting. He doesn’t understand what I will be up to when I am away from him. He only knows that the early morning is his. And he will not be deterred from the toilet seat, where he sits and narrates everything that I do.

“Mama, showa” – Yes, honey, mommy is going to take a shower now.

“Mama, bwush teef” – Yes, Micah, do you want to brush teeth too?

“Mama, shorts?” – Thank you honey, yes, pass me my pants, I’m going to get dressed now.

He is my morning dialogue.

It’s intimate, the two of us in the darkness, and the rosy glow of the new day. Between the mundane tasks of getting ready for work there is this little island of bliss. And it’s seated on top of our toilet.

Micah knows that to spend time with me he needs to meet me where I am. And in the mornings, I am in the bathroom.

These last few days I have wanted to be close to God like that. I have wanted to hold out my hand to Him and follow His routine and see what He is up to. There have been a few events in particular that I watched from my perch in the comfort of His presence that made me as giddy as Micah with a bottle of milk in one hand and a pacifier in the other.

Two moms took the long walk of courage down a hospital corridor to hand over their children for heart surgery. A baby many of us have read about and loved from afar and a little nine-year-old-girl with a beautiful heart that needed fixing. As I read about the intricate procedures and the surgeons who understand the art and science of the heart I was awed by the God who designed it.

This is the God who is as much in Michigan as He is in Minnesota as He is in Africa. He is with us as mothers and He is with us as wives. And he understands the dark seasons of the heart and He is the only one who can give us the strength to move forward. He is the God of mourning and of dancing.

And of dancing.

Because sometimes we forget that part. We take our troubles to Him and our celebrations elsewhere. But this week, I got to witness a group of people get downright giddy for what our God can do. They get it. They get that He is the God of our intimate moments – happy, sad, angry and inbetween. He is the God of our highs and lows. He is the God of our commutes and our bathroom routines.

And it makes me want to wrap my arms around the Internet and yell, “God loves you and you and you and ME!” If you are having trouble remembering that this morning, go and read the links above and then come back here and yell it right back at me, ’cause I sure need to hear it as often as possible  “God loves US!”

In the midst of our frustrations and chaos and hurts and eyes squinted against the bright light of all that’s coming at us that we don’t understand. God loves us. And it makes me want to get up from where I am and toddle after Him, so I can be part of His routine. Because this week I was reminded again, it’s anything but.

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