Every night, the same thing happens. I double-wrap Little Brother in diapers, yank him into his zippered footie pajamas, and zip him into his sleep sack. I walk him the three long steps from the changing table to his rocker. And as we sit down together, he commences to lose his shit.

The bottle is waiting on the chair for us, as it always is. I quickly press it into his hands, as I always do. He greedily shoves it into his face, as he always does. But every night, he behaves as though this is the time I’m not going to feed him.

It’s frustrating. Annoying. Insulting. Hurtful, if it’s been a long day and I’m in the mood to make it personal.

It is so like me.

I remember going through something my senior year of high school and afterward, with all the wisdom that a few months’ hindsight and eighteen short years of experience garnered, wishing that I had trusted more that everything would turn out okay. Even then, rule-follower instead of grace-accepter that I was, I knew this was a truth that I should carry around with me, think about often, maybe even live differently because of it. I imagined that I would probably have some tough times in the future when faith could be a comfort and a strength, that I could probably use this awareness of its balm and its fortitude, of the way it could free me.

You know. Probably.

I”ve been thinking lately about what it would mean, what it would look like, to live every moment as though I really believe in the redemption of all of them. In the blessing of all of them, in the truth that grace soaks through all of them. I’ve been thinking this because there have been a few moments lately when I’ve felt a divine love pierce through clouds: a drive on the highway to work in the morning with my passenger, anxiety, in the seat beside me, and suddenly that passenger is made to look so ridiculous by the overwhelming presence of love on my behalf. The exposure of my fears for what they are–paper tigers–by transcendent joy. Joy not after everything turns out okay, but in the waiting, in the tension, in the struggle and pain. These moments of realization are sadly rare, but I don’t think that’s grace’s fault.

The thought that rises in the wake of these moments is that this is the way life could, should be: joyful relaxation into arms that are not my own. On-the-ground playfulness and laughter. Full release. The reins, after all, pull so tightly when my hands are holding them. Then I read what my dear friend wrote: “…for too long, I refused to commit to all the goodness I had in front of me.” This is the friend who tells me she loves our story, who reminds me of its beauty, and here I am picking and choosing what gets to be called goodness. What gets to be called desirable and pretty. Because no matter how many times I consider the truth or type it onto a screen, I still rail against any definition other than mine.

And it hits me with the force of divine love on a highway how much commitment can look like surrender. That they both acknowledge the promise and say “yes” to it.

The Kid is asking, asking, all the time, vocalizing and pointing, and I get tired. But I’ve found that he relaxes, his voice and gestures less urgent and more…playful, when I don’t wait for him to ask. When I acknowledge his need on the ground and start naming things, everything. Because everything does have a name, and he wants to know it. And this is how architecture changes subtly over time, so that we look back and see how we’ve gone from building on sand to building on rock, and everything has a name, and it is good.