My teeth clench. My hand opens and closes, changing from rose to hard white. Head feeling as if it would burst into flames. My feet take me out of the room. It is better that way.
I write a letter offering my resignation. But by the time the Engineer has returned home, it has silently retracted itself as the children and I have sprouted flour on our noses and are dangling spoons of cookie dough from our fingers.
It seems like daily I fight the urge to wash my hands, change my clothes and walk out the door. Leave everything behind and disappearing.
But the residual effects on these precious gifts is what concerns me the most. Though they alone have the ability to make me madder than a disturbed hornet nest, quite honestly I never truly want to hurt them.
I may think it. But the grief at such thoughts and sinful tongue lashings nearly suffocate me as I beg for forgiveness from Abba.
God, I cry. What were you thinking? I wasn’t supposed to have children! Now you have blessed me with four? And this is how I thank you? Hurting this tender flock? Forgive me. I beg you to change me . . . change me from the inside out. Quickly. Overnight. Please.
I vow to wake up earlier the next day. To dig into my Precept Upon Precept Study. To resolve. To follow through. Fortitude.
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