Someone I work with on community projects—I’ll call her Sue—has a tendency to forget to follow through on things.

It’s aggravating. It’s so aggravating that sometimes I get fed up even before she lets me down. My thoughts of Sue are peppered with words like always (messes up) and never (is reliable). My actions are salted with sighs and rolled eyes and muffled groans.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the Babylonian exile lately. I find it strangely comforting.

The Israelites were separated from their families, transported hundreds of miles from home, suddenly living in an unknown culture with an unintelligible language and forced into slave labor. They couldn’t offer sacrifices at the temple; couldn’t gather a minyan or pray as a group; probably couldn’t have any real contact with anyone of the same faith. Some were undoubtedly beaten or abused.

Elizabeth, my oldest, is coming home for a 10-day visit. Her junior year of college is over, and this summer she’ll be working for a professor at MIT. It’s her first job away from home.  

I was reading the Book of Numbers recently and came across that familiar chant of the Israelites, “Why have you brought us up out of Egypt to die in the wilderness? There is no bread! There is no water!” In Numbers 21:5, the words were followed by another whine that made me laugh out loud: “And we detest this miserable food!”

I laughed because I complain about the manna in my life, too.

I eat every day, but want the luxury of eating out from time to time.

I have a place to live, but the tile in our 1933-era bathroom is awful.

Today Andrew and I celebrate our 20th wedding anniversary. I'm happy, though we happen to be in the midst of one of those bumpy patches that plague almost every marriage.

I woke up, made coffee and sat down to pray. I pried out the words I’ve used almost daily for two decades: Lord, thank you for my husband. Pause. Teach me to love him.

Recently, my father came for a visit. We’ve been going through a very difficult time with one of my kids this spring, and my dad said, “I’m not sure there’s anything I can do, but I could come and be with you.” I took him up on the offer.

The first moms’ group I ever attended consisted of six women and ten kids. A babysitter watched the babies; the mothers met separately to read the Bible, talk and pray. It was nice, but a little weird.

You see, all of the other moms went to a different church than I did. And they all prayed the same way: same chatty tone of voice, same overall structure, even some of the same words (“Abba God” and “just” were popular). I felt a bit like I hadn’t gotten the script.

I was feeling kind of annoyed—OK, hurt—that a friend in whom I’d confided a delicate problem hadn’t spoken to me for a while. Maybe she doesn’t want to be close to someone with that problem, I thought.

I pushed the idea aside, since I was already overwhelmed and didn’t have mental space for additional problems. But still, it rankled.

Then one day the friend texted to see if my son could play with her son in the park. I texted back, and as a habitual afterthought added, “How are you doing?”

I have a simple rule for life with teenagers. When a kid starts getting argumentative or difficult, I pray.

It’s always the same prayer: Holy Spirit, give me the words.

I pray it before I speak. Holy Spirit, give me the words. Sometimes I need it each time I open my mouth: Holy Spirit, give me the words.

At times I hear wise things coming out of my lips, calm observations that I know were not in my head even a split second before. Other times nothing comes to mind, and I know to be silent.

I headed out to the Easter Vigil, super-angry at one of my kids. It was a deep resentment, the kind that’s hard to shake.

Fortunately the service was extremely long, and as I sat in the dark with my lighted candle I had ample time for reflection. Surely, I thought, I had a hard heart toward my child.