I sit in my chair in the early morning to spend time with the Lord, and they come. Pattering little feet, medium feet, bigger feet. The cry of one whose feet don't yet patter. One wants a bottle, one wants a drink, one wants a cuddle, one wants to talk--all want a piece of me. I tear the pieces and give them away.
I stand at the kitchen counter, cooking breakfast, and they come. Storming feet, running feet. A tempest to calm--two pieces blow away in the wind. "I'm hungry!" "I'm tired!" Two littler cries join the blowing--and more pieces of me are gone.
I sit at the table, ready for school lessons. No one else is ready. "Can I have a drink first?" "I want that crayon!" "Help me find my page, Mom!" And it must be time to feed the little one again. I hardly notice the pieces of me flying quickly away in the mayhem that surrounds me.
They trickle away through the day. Sometimes I hardly notice. Others, I cringe as they tear. Some, I fight to hold onto. Pieces of me...of my day...a little for everyone.
We sit down at the table, food hot and ready to eat. I wonder if there is anything left of me. It seems I've given away every piece I have. Are they all gone?
Then I look around the table. My husband sits, strong and ready to lead in the blessing. My daughter sits, ready to share about her latest project. My son dances on the edge of his chair, ready to tell about some escapade of his day. My two-year-old, sitting high in his booster seat, sneaks as many bites as possible before Daddy reminds him we haven't thanked Jesus yet. The baby sits in his high chair, still propped by blankets because he can't sit on his own.
Then, I smile. No, every piece is still there. None are missing at all. I catch glimpses of the pieces of me as my heart scans the faces of those around me. I realize, as we sit at the family meal table, that the pieces come together in such a way, that I could never be more whole.