I had originally written this piece a couple months ago. After spending the morning on the floor with my son as I tried to heal from a glorious battle with the stomach flu it came back to me. Enjoy.
Before I knew what was happening I was already five minutes down imagination lane. I had been talking to my sister and afterward it occurred to me that only her son is home with her during the day. With the imminent arrival of my third child at the fore front of my mind the juxtaposition was too much- one glorious child.
Quickly, my mind fashioned a highly romantic rendition of the last two months with only Jonas in my care. Playtime would be so quiet. Naps would be so simple. It escalates. Life would just be so much easier if I didn’t home school. I could get so much more done!
The words land in my conscience like dead weight. That’s what I really want isn’t it? To just get it all done. It’s an obsession really; me, moms, just people in general- we’re all obsessed with getting stuff done. Industry is the great human idol to which I so often bend my knee.
Oh, if only it were that obvious. But the most powerful lies are the ones you never actually say. Instead, I wake up with that subconscious soundtrack playing through my brain- Got to do, got to do, got to do some more. Without realizing it, I start being pushed through the hours by a never ending list of pressures. Pushed passed my kids, pushed passed my Lord, pushed past my own limits. But no matter how resourceful I am, how motivated, how organized, there’s simply more to do than can be done and I’m cursed before I ever begin.
Sweet, tender, mercy.
I am not cursed. I am blessed by a God whose Gospel is what He did not a list of what I must do. The lie, exposed, is thin in the light. Soon it dissipates all together and I’m back in the present- here and engaged. Here where my sons are home under giant quilts. We pour over library books and drink our fill of warm milk. The subconscious lie-song silenced, the background music is now thundering play and relentless inquisition. Here, as in that first Garden, perfection is communion not accomplishment.
I pull myself from the tub and retire to my room. I’ve remembered a little truth and experienced a little victory in the deep of my soul. Before sleep can find me, my child does. Tearfully pulled from afternoon slumber he reaches for me. He knows it’s not yet time to be awake.
“Do I have to go back downstairs?” he whispers.
“No” I whisper back, pulling him onto the pillows “Stay with me.”
He tucks in, sockless toes wedged between my knees. I wrap myself around him and drown in the sweet swirl of gold-kissed curls. We breathe. And do nothing.