Tag: life

Four Miles

As I tied my shoe laces Saturday morning, I felt such pride in myself. It was 7:30 a.m., and here I was getting ready for a run while the rest of my town was sleeping. I grabbed a banana and my water bottle and headed to the car. Today was the day–four miles–and I was going to get them done while the air was cool and crisp, while my neighbors snuggled under their warm blankets.

But as I pulled into the packed parking lot of the park, I realized I wasn’t nearly as awesome as I thought. Evidently, a lot of people exercise early on Saturday morning. Nevertheless, I got out of the car ready to start my goal, albeit feeling slightly less important.

About a month ago, I had decided I wanted to train for a half marathon. I had run one about six years before, before I had kids, before I had become, apparently, out of shape. The training so far wasn’t going as well as I’d hoped. Running long distances has never been easy for me, but the first time I trained, I was able to increase my mileage each week. Now–well, let’s just say that if those heart sensors on treadmills had an alarm that goes off when one’s heart is about to explode, the paramedics would be ready and waiting most days of my training.

Prior to a race where Matt and I pretended to be runners only to almost die

This particular Saturday was no different. As my feet hit the pavement, my mind was thankful for the cool morning air and a change in scenery from the gym, but my body didn’t care; it wanted to go to bed. I knew from past experience that I take a few minutes to get going, to get a good pace and rhythm, but after five minutes, I was already struggling. My legs didn’t want to move, and I had to pee. Why, no matter how many times that I pee before starting, do I still have to pee two minutes into a run (I would guess childbirth has something to do with that answer. You men have it so good)?

It’s way too early to quit, I told myself. So I moved along and decided by a mile in, I’d find my groove. But after running one mile, I was still running at the pace of toddler learning to walk. I tried to stay positive and kept going. I smiled as a little chipmunk scurried in front of my path. I reflected on the wonder of God as a beam of light rays pushed through the tree branches ahead of me. I found a moment of joy.

And then I watched the 70-year-old man pass me on the left while I was contemplating if my own lungs would collapse.

I had run almost two miles, and I was still struggling. The little inclines were killing me. I was huffing and puffing. My legs felt tired, and my breathing hadn’t adjusted to a comfortable rhythm. I never found my groove.

I might have to stop. I didn’t want to have to holler after that 70- year-old that I was dying and needed his help to get me to my car so that I could go to Starbucks. I was ready to quit.

But I couldn’t.

My plan said I was supposed to run four miles that day, and if I didn’t run four, then the rest of the weeks of training would be that much harder.

So I kept going, shuffling my feet one in front of the other, hoping I didn’t see anyone I knew. But then something amazing happened.

Shortly after two miles, I noticed I could breathe. All of sudden, my body began to run on its own instead of me forcing it to move. I was now running at the pace of a four-year-old walking. I had found my groove. For the next two miles, I ran. I even passed some people. On a long, flat stretch, I picked up the pace again, and for a few moments, I slightly enjoyed myself.

When I saw the small, wooden sign marking my goal, I pushed myself and yearned for that finish. And when I finished, I felt good. My face was beat red, my stomach hurt, and I wanted to throw up–but I felt good. I could finally pee. I had finished. I had finished.

I wonder how many times we quit something one mile too soon.


While I was running, I felt like for the first time I could truly understand what it means to run with perseverance the race marked out for us, 2 fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith (Hebrews 12: 1-2). Sometimes marriage is not easy. Raising kids is not easy. Having a positive attitude at work is not easy. Sometimes, it’s easier to quit.

But if we would’ve held on for one more mile, would we have finally found our groove? Or would God have sent a little chipmunk or light rays through the branches of a tree to cause us to smile for a moment, distracting us from the discomfort of not being able to breathe easily, giving us just enough of a boost to continue a little further?

I’m convinced that my life is very much like running four miles. For some, they seem to run with ease, passing me on the left while I’m huffing and puffing and wondering if this is the end for me. But there are always those moments, always those moments scattered throughout my run to bring a smile to my face. And once in a while, I even fall into a groove, and when I do, I’m always glad that I didn’t fall down on the ground and ask the 70-year-old man to take me to Starbucks instead.

Two days ago, I watched my two-year-old daughter play with her best friend. I’ve never seen two children so small actually play with one another and not just alongside one another. They talked in their baby voices and laughed and chased each other, and they gave me that boost I needed to run uphill that day. So when I was digging through my son’s poop later that day looking for a Lego, I just thought of those sweet, little girls and realized now was not the time to throw in the towel–even though I still hadn’t found that stupid Lego and will have to dig again later this week.

In Real Life

When I pictured myself all grown up, I imagined a beautiful wife (somehow age would completely transform my looks) who was loving and kind. My husband and I would have passionate sex all the time, the excuse of tiredness never creeping in our bed, and when we had a disagreement, we would fight fair.

I saw a mother who laughed and played and performed puppet shows and dress-up frequently. My children displayed evidence of their mother’s discipline, all having exceptional manners and self-control. And when they went astray, my temper did not, and I never yelled or spanked out of anger.

And one day I woke up in real life.

I woke up without makeup many days. Sometimes sleep really did sound better than sex. I didn’t always fight fair and carried more grudges than grace. I yelled at my children, my children who were far crazier than the children in my vision, and I found that I carried many of those traits that in others I hate.

Luckily, God never had to wake up. He knows what real life looks like and was prepared a little better than I.

Linking up with the Gypsy Mama for her 5 Minute Friday. What surprised you most about your real life?

 

Hoarding’s Okay If I Do It

If my marriage ever has a downfall, it will be the garage. Every time I park the van outside its doors to walk through the space intended for two cars but, instead, is used for boxes upon boxes of only God knows what, I clench my jaw. I look at the shelves filled with electronics and think Why won’t he give that stuff away? I see crates full of papers and wonder what important documents might be looming beneath the stack. But, mostly, I see that the majority of that crap isn’t mine.

However, I was given a slight wake-up call when we attempted to move a year or so ago. We cleaned out closets and did our best to show that our home had great storage–no need to ever use the garage for that–and my husband spent many hours straightening up the garage (not throwing things away…aargh). In the process, I helped out in the garage a little, too, and after putting book after book in boxes, I realized that I might have a few items leading to the mess out there.

But they’re books, and books don’t really count.

A few months ago, I attended a writer’s workshop, and one of the presenters came and spoke to me during the break. I had mentioned that I was a former English teacher, and the conversation carried on from there. She spoke of how students don’t enjoy reading because we force them to read books to which they cannot relate. I nodded my head in agreement. She then went on to say, “Why do we make kids read The Catcher in the Rye? I hated that book. It is completely pointless.” At that point in the conversation, my chin hit the floor. She was bashing my favorite book, the book that is in my nightstand drawer, taped together and with pages full of underlined sentences. On and on she continued to go–I couldn’t even interrupt to tell her how much I love that book. Shut up, I thought. I really, really want to punch you in the face right now.

Perhaps my reaction was a little dramatic but it illuminates what reading means to me. When we decided to have three kids in three years, I always had a baby to nurse, which meant I was always up at really odd hours. And then of course, when I was finished nursing, I then had children learning to sleep (and escape) in toddler beds. I was the one not getting much sleep, so when I even attempted to read a book, I found myself instead drooling all over my pillow.

It wasn’t until recently when I started consistently reading again that I realized how important diving into a book is to me. I love finding myself in a novel and learning what makes me tick. While Jay Gatsby and I live very different lives, I know what it’s like to pursue a dream that wasn’t a good dream in the first place. I didn’t grown up in the ’60s, nor have I ever had consistent help, but I can analyze the complexities of my own relationships, acknowledge my prejudices, and understand the fact that we all have more in common than we think. When I read a book by Donald Miller, I laugh at his humor while struggling with the challenges he has given me to strengthen my faith. And when I travel to Afghanistan in A Thousand Splendid Suns, I experience for a moment what it would be like to grow up in a culture and faith very unlike my own.

I mean, I’m not really expected to give away one of those books, am I? Each book in a box or on a shelf represents a part of me–except for the books that I haven’t read, yet, but one day when I do, those books will become a part of me, too–and if I give away a book, it would be like giving away one of my arms. Yes, I guess I could give away those books that aren’t my favorites, but what if they would’ve become one of my children’s favorites someday? Okay, I admit it. I hoard books, but my question is why doesn’t everybody?

I walked through the garage this morning, clenched my jaw as I stepped around pool noodles and bikes, and looked at the shelf with a stack of hardcover books. Yeah, that garage is never getting cleaned.

Mama’s Losin’ It

Linking up today with Mama Kat for her Writer’s Workshop. Do you enjoy building your own private library, or do you prefer checking out books from a public one? If you don’t hoard books, what is one item that you do hoard?

Dead Fish and Nursing Gowns: A Short Story

 

Image courtesy of photobucket.com

“Sometimes it’s just hard to let go.”

I wish I had had something more comforting to say, but these words were all I could figure. I pulled Luke down to the floor on my lap as I stroked his thick, brown hair.

“But I don’t want to say goodbye, Mommy.”

“I know, baby; I know.”

“Will Sam go to heaven? Does God let fish in heaven?” He struggled to push the words out without falling into a mess of tears.

“Oh, I’d like to think so. God created fish, so I’m sure there’ll be fish there. And God knows how much you love Sam, so I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s up there swimming around waiting to see you again one day.”

I hugged him tighter; Luke was so sensitive. I had to get that belly-up fish out of his room.

“It’s okay to be sad, Buddy. It’s okay to cry. You loved Sam.”

And with my permission, the tears rolled down his hot, red cheeks.

“Look, I need to take Sam out of your room now.”

Geez. How was I going to do this? I had never dealt with a dead pet before. Flushing the fish down the toilet in front of a sobbing boy seemed as cruel as those funerals where they lowered the casket in front of the family.

“What are you going to do with him?” Luke asked. Except, I didn’t know. ‘Deal with the dead fish’ wasn’t on my original ‘to-do’ list.

“Well…I can’t leave him in this fishbowl like this. You don’t want to look at Sam like this…”

“Please don’t take him out of my room! Let him stay here!”

“Babe, we can’t keep a dead fish in–“

“Can I have a funeral for him?” Luke interrupted.

“Umm, I guess we can…if that’ll make you feel better.”  If giving a funeral for a dead fish would allow me to take the fish out of Luke’s room, I was all for it.

“Let me just get a box for him, sweetie. Why don’t you go pick some flowers in the backyard that we could use for the service?”

As Luke headed down the stairs, I hurried to my bathroom to bury Sam at sea. And once I bid him a final farewell, I dug through shoes and clothes in the bottom of my closet looking for a proper box with which to hold his ‘remains.’

So we spent the afternoon digging up dirt and picking dandelions from the backyard in order to give Sam a proper burial underneath the big pear tree in our yard. Luke said a few words, and I said a few words, and as the warm sun made its way into our eyes, I was suddenly very thankful that Sam chose to die during Elizabeth’s nap. Yes, he was a good fish.

The rest of the day was typical–dinner and play and baths and stories–but by the time Luke lay his head on his pillow, convinced that Sam would be in heaven, and I kissed the curls on Elizabeth’s sleeping head, I was ready for bed myself. I contemplated hitting the sack early, calling it a night, but then I remembered the bag of clothes I agreed to leave on my porch for the clothing pick-up in the morning. The bag that I had not yet gotten together.

I was rummaging through my drawers when I heard Brian coming up the stairs.

“Hi,” he said as he kissed my head. “What’cha doing?”

“Oh, the clothing pick-up’s tomorrow, and I’m sure I have plenty to give away in these drawers.” I motioned to the crowded t-shirts scrunched forming little mounds in their space. “The meatloaf’s warming in the oven, if you want to make our plates. Give me ten minutes, and I’ll come down.”

“All right. What do you want to drink?”

“I’ll just have some water,” I said with a small smile and then turned back to the drawers in front of me.

Cleaning out the drawers was faster work than I thought. As I grabbed t-shirt after t-shirt, I added more and more to the pile. There’s was no reason for me to have so many. I looked at the clock. It was five until eight. I could finish these drawers, eat dinner with Brian, and then call it a night. There would be enough in the bag for the pick-up tomorrow to be worth their while, and I could get the rest I so desperately wanted. Who knew the death of a fish could be so draining?

I started on my pajama drawer, wondering why I had so many since I always slept in t-shirts, then contemplating if I should hold on to them as I looked at the massive t-shirt pile. I decided against keeping most of the pajamas, throwing more clothes on the growing mound. I grabbed a nightgown that I had forgotten I had, a nursing gown that I last used two years ago.

I started to throw the gown on the pile, but then I stopped. I looked at it in my hands–the white gown that I wore in the hospital after both children were born, the gown that I wore in bed many nights during their first year of life to make three a.m. feedings a little easier–and I held it to my nose. I don’t know what I was expecting, perhaps the scent of a newborn, but I rubbed my cheek with the gown and held it there. And then I pulled it away, gave it one last look, and threw it on top of the pile.

I grabbed a few more items of clothing and tossed them on the pile. I opened the black trash bag beside me and stuffed everything in. Then I pushed my drawer closed, got up off my knees which cracked a little when I stood, and I headed down the stairs to join Brian for dinner. We talked about the day, the fish funeral, meetings with employees at work, the upcoming fall conference at school, and then we rinsed our dishes before closing them in the dishwasher to do the dirty work.

And then I drug myself back to my room and got ready for bed.

That night I closed my eyes as I nuzzled my cheek against my pillow and took a deep breath. Thoughts of ‘Sam’ beneath our tree and the kids dreaming in their beds filled my mind. Finally, sleep could come. But as sleep came over me, so did a picture of me in my nursing gown. I gently opened my eyes only to let them close again before drifting to sleep.

The next morning, though, I got up and headed straight to the full bag of clothes. I dug through the top layer until I saw the white cotton gown beneath some yellow pajamas. I grabbed the gown and threw it back in my drawer without giving it another look before heading to the bathroom.

Sometimes it’s just hard to let go.

Last Thursday, I was inspired by one of Mama Kat’s writing prompts to write a post beginning and ending with the same sentence. However, I stayed up until two a.m. Thursday morning finishing a photo book. Hey–cut me some slack! I had a coupon for 50% off that expired at 12 a.m. PST. Anyway, waking up early to write didn’t happen, so here is my short story a week and a day late.

 

 

 

Thinking Good

I cringed as I watched the dad before me.

His son was up to bat, and his hands gripped the fence tightly in front of him. We had already observed his antics the previous time Micah* came to the plate, his yelling and the look of disgust over his face when his son propelled his entire body toward the ball, bat still, instead of just swinging.

You know the type. The dad who feels his son’s performance is a reflection of himself, even if we all are only watching a T-ball game full of five-year-olds.

So when this dad moved forward to watch Micah attempt to hit the ball, I cringed in anticipation of how he might react.

I wasn’t disappointed.

Micah surprisingly hit the ball off the tee, and we cheered in excitement. After all, the team rallied, and we were only a couple of runs behind. We could actually tie this game up.

But this little boy didn’t seem to understand the weight of his hit. No, instead of running to base, Micah decided to swing his arms around like he was a helicopter, bob his head from side to side, and kick up his legs slowly as he lolligagged over to base.

Everyone in the stands was laughing. Everyone, that is, except for Micah’s dad. The dad yelled through the fence, “RUN, MICAH! RUN!” And then he turned away in frustration when his son was thrown out by a mile (which rarely happens in T-ball).

I wished the dad could lighten up. I wished he could realize these kids are little; who cares if they don’t take the game seriously? Nobody thought he had failed as a father because his son stunk at T-ball. There would be plenty of time for truly competitive sports later.

I’m not sure if this father had any realizations that day, but I surprised myself with my own a few hours later in the car. I shared it that night as Matt and I met in the bathroom getting ready for bed.

“You know,” I said, “I really didn’t  like how Micah’s dad yelled at him during the game. I’m sure he made Micah nervous.”

“Oh, I didn’t notice.”

“Really? I thought he was pretty obnoxious. I’m surprised you didn’t hear him.”

Matt had served as the on-deck coach that game, so he was preoccupied. But now knowing that he hadn’t even noticed Micah’s dad made me doubt what I observed a little.

“Well, anyway, he really bothered me…but I have to admit…I kind of wanted to yell, too.”

Matt and I laughed, and at almost the same time, we both yelled out versions of “Just RUN, Micah!”

Because it’s true. My mind was thinking almost everything Micah’s dad’s mouth was saying. Perhaps knowing my own thoughts is the reason I had such disdain for him. And while I didn’t and still don’t agree with how this particular dad reacted, I felt like a hypocrite for having this disdain. After all, my thoughts weren’t any better; I just happened to keep them to myself.

During my drive in the car I thought about the different times in my life when I had acted the right way but not thought the right way. The times when I didn’t gossip but hid judgmental thoughts in my heart. The times when I didn’t complain at work but criticized my boss over and over in my head. And the times when I cringed at parents who couldn’t relax knowing that I, too, would’ve felt a little embarrassed if my kid rounded the bases like a helicopter.

I know the right way to act, and, most times, I choose the right behavior. I just don’t always choose the right way to think.

After my drive in the car, I was reminded of the fact that I have been reminded of before: I have a long way to go. I don’t want just pure behavior; I want pure thoughts. When I laugh at little kids on the ball field acting like helicopters, I don’t want thoughts of “Geez, Louise, kid! Just run!” interfering. I don’t want critical thoughts filling up space in my mind (I need those spaces for memory!). I want to be good and think good, too.

So, please, Micah. Help me out. I have a long way to go as a person, and you have a long way to go as a ball player. Can we meet in the middle? How about a nice jog to first base next time? I promise I’ll only think good thoughts about you.

*The name of this little ball player has been changed to protect the innocent.

Can anyone relate to my problem, or am I just evil?

 

Measuring Sticks

I measure my life by birthday parties.

I measure the stability of my marriage by the number of hours I spend in the kitchen versus the number of episodes my husband watches from the couch, the strength of our marriage by our ability to communicate telepathically about paper streamers (seriously, who doesn’t twist streamers before taping them to the ceiling?) and the placement of the purple napkins.

I measure my worth as a mother by the amount of pink ribbons made from natural food coloring on the cake and the ratio of homemade to store-bought food, my success in parenting by the quantity of products on my table lacking high-fructose corn syrup in exchange for something crafted from my own hands.

I measure my growth as an adult by the time on the clock when I finally crawl into bed and the number of minutes I finish preparing before (or after) the guests arrive, my progress as a homemaker by whether or not they see dust bunnies or carpet lines when they walk through the front door.

And I measure the healthiness of my mental state by the expression on my face and the direction of my brows as I fumble with goodie bags and twist-ties, the condition of my heart by the genuineness of my smile and whether or not I’m relaxed or pretending to relax and enjoy the party.

Because we all do it. We all have our different coffee spoons by which we measure our lives. And we drift through our days holding up those measuring sticks and scratching out our little pencil marks reminding ourselves how our performance stacked up against other days’, how far we still have to go, how imperfect we really are.

We allow ourselves to fret and worry about a score card that is graded solely by us, the red pen marks bolder and harsher than any we received in school. And we let our poor grades interfere with enjoying our greatest accomplishments.

Or maybe that’s just me.

I’ve thrown 11 kid birthday parties now, and while I learned my lesson and threw out the score card on party #9, I still find old cards hidden in the junk drawer. I’m tempted to reassess and get out my red pen. But I can’t because the score doesn’t matter.

The score will never be perfect.

But the memories, yes, the memories of bright eyes and wide smiles, hugs with family and laughter with friends–these are the sticks by which to measure life.

‘The memories of heartache and tears and gentle fingers ready to catch them as they rolled down my cheek–these are the sticks by which to measure life.

The memories of times when no words were spoken, but we sat together and waited together and endured together–these are the sticks by which to measure life.

The times spent with others; pouring into each other; living life, the good, the bad–all of it–these are the sticks by which I will measure life because these are what will endure long after I don’t; these are what matter.

Not the coffee spoons. Not the paper streamers. Not the lack of high-fructose corn syrup (No, I can’t write it. Eliminating high-fructose corn syrup totally matters). But those who used the coffee spoons and sat under the straight streamers and ate the natural food–they are who matter.

Hannah Grace, you will always matter to me. I made the mistake earlier on of not enjoying every moment because I was too stressed out trying to create it. And while I still have those moments when I fall back into my perfectionist mode, I’m doing better. You’re too special to not enjoy every moment with you and your brother and sister. I hope you enjoyed your 4th birthday party, every minute of it, because I enjoyed every minute that I watched that beautiful smile on  your face. I love you, Mommy.

By what do you measure your life? By what do you base your figurative score card?

Bending the Rules

Last night my daughter slept on my head. I knew I was uncomfortable all night, as I had scrunched into the smallest ball possible trying not to roll off the side of our king-sized bed, yet it wasn’t until I opened my eyes and looked up that I realized exactly where my daughter had landed.

Matt and I have had a rule for sleeping since our oldest was old enough to start testing our beliefs on sleep: each child is to start off in his or her bed, but if they end up in our bed in the middle of the night, so be it. This rule has worked fairly well, as our oldest sleeps in his bed most nights, except for those rare nights when a bad dream disturbs his sleep.

However, our middle child ends up in our bed every night. Again, it’s not ideal, but we’re okay with our rule.

Well, last night, we brought two little girls into our bed–at the beginning of the night. Three hours of screaming and crying persuaded me to wave the white flag of surrender. I just wanted to lie down and read my book. I was tired of fighting.

As I’ve gotten older, I’m not so sure I’ve gotten wiser. However, I’ve grown more realistic. Convictions are good–they are essential–but some convictions are meant to guide along the path of life. Hold to them too tightly, and one might break.

So as I walk this journey of parenting, marriage, friendships–life–I realize, I need to walk the path with a little more curves. Because sometimes, life is about surviving, surviving with with a smile on my face, and if that means breaking my bedtime rule for one night, so be it.

 

image courtesy of photobucket

Linking up with the Gypsy Mama for her 5 Minute Friday. This week’s topic is ‘Older’ in honor of Lisa-Jo’s birthday!

 

New

Sometimes I look at my minivan, the crumb-covered floor, crayon-marked leather, and I think to myself this van is beyond hope. We’d have better luck starting new.

When I clean my bathroom, I instantly notice the mildew stain along the caulking near the floor, that same stain that’s been a part of my showering experience since we first moved into this house. I walk into any room in the house and see closets busting forth with clothes and other junk that I had forgotten existed. And I think it would be so much easier to just move into a new house, start fresh, than to deal with all this junk.

And sometimes, I crave the touch of a newborn curled into my chest. I crave the innocence of a new baby not yet showing the marks of our depraved nature. I remember the days of kids who were too small to sneak cookies or utter words of defiance. I miss new.

But today I said a different prayer. I thought that, perhaps, I don’t need new things or to start over with new babies (God, help me). Instead, I need new eyes. Eyes to see that under van seats with hidden toys and scary surprises is the potential to look brand-new with a little elbow grease (okay, that’s hyperbole. it could look better, though). Eyes to see that some new caulking and lots of deep breaths over many days of cleaning out a little at a time is the potential of a home that is de-cluttered but full of character. And eyes to see into those little souls and know exactly how to touch those sweet spots that crave cookies.

Linking up with The Gypsy Mama for her 5 Minute Friday (or in my case, 8 Minute Friday…I’ve decided that I have a slight disability that doesn’t allow me to think quickly. The time to get ideas from my brain to the keyboard is long, so I’ve allowed myself to bend the rules…but I still didn’t edit).

 

Beauty

I’m constantly amazed at the work of God’s hands to take the ugly, jagged pieces of our broken lives and make a beautiful mosaic. Where we once saw pain and death, we see a new masterpiece where God has used all those experiences to shape us into something stronger, better.

Over the last few months I’ve witnessed some of these pieces. I saw God’s hands hold the sharp piece holding death, and He painted soft colors through the middle where friends brought comfort. I saw pieces containing disappointment over lost jobs and an end to one phase of life only for God to draw a new picture for the future in its place.

And I saw the small, insignificant pieces become part of the masterpiece, the pieces of messes on the kitchen floor when a little girl wants to feel like a woman. The pieces where banana pudding recipes contain thyme and honey and pepper and are joined to a new piece, one with the opportunity for a mother to help clean up the mess and make something beautiful. I saw the beauty of the new piece, a memory of creating something new and good out of the misguided intentions of an almost four-year-old.

Just the way God does with our messes when He comes alongside to gently clean away the spills and create a work of art in its place.

Joining up with the Gypsy Mama for her ‘5 Minute Friday’ on ‘Beauty.’ In an attempt at full disclosure, today was more like a 10 minute Friday for me due to a brain freeze in the middle of writing, but I did not edit my work per the rules. Where do you find beauty?

 

So Nothing Is Wasted

Wednesday night I pulled clean sheets out of the dryer only to put them back in the wash on Thursday morning, two out of my three kids having wet their beds sometime during the night. And as I sat on the floor in Chloe’s room, unrolling the t-shirts she had made into ‘hot dogs’ (I have no idea, but it’s one of Hannah Grace’s and her favorite pastimes) I acknowledged how much of each day is spent redoing tasks I had just completed. Many days I have complained to Matt that I feel like my efforts are for nothing, wasted since it is inevitable that the day I mop, one of the kids will immediately spill a glass of milk, smush a strawberry, or pee all over the kitchen floor (we have issues with pee in this family). And often, I have looked to the day when I can engage in more meaningful activities.

But as I sat on the floor turning hot dogs into t-shirts again on this particular morning, I did so without the normal level of frustration that I’m apt to feel. Instead, I recognized a thought not original to me: Cleaning up hotdogs and pee is my ministry.

I’m not sure anyone has ever written that thought precisely as I just wrote it, but I’ve encountered the sentiment many times. How I handle all the gross and mundane tasks, the chores that I do and then redo, is not wasted effort. Raising my children, complete with the tasks that accompany this role, is my meaningful activity.

I get frustrated when the activities director at the nursing home says I can volunteer, but my children are too young; I long for the day when I can travel with my church group to Mozambique to help build wells; and I sigh deeply when the baby who wouldn’t go to sleep last night wakes up early when I’m trying to write. But I have forgotten one important fact: Volunteering, building wells, and my blog are not my job.

But they are.

God gave me my passion to serve and to write, so I’m not dismissing my desires. When I can, I should pursue these passions, but I should not allow myself to fall into the trap of thinking that building wells is a more important job than washing wet sheets. I have to admit that even as I write those words they sit a bit funny. For too long I’ve allowed myself to gloss over the positive impact I can make on my children, that just as clean water brings life to a community my efforts at home bring life to my family.

When I make my children clean up the spilled milk on the newly mopped floor, they learn responsibility and the importance of caring for those possessions with which we have been blessed. When my children see me make a meal for a neighbor, they witness compassion and will hopefully embody a spirit who looks outside themselves to the needs of others. And when I fail them and don’t demonstrate love as I should, they understand that even family will disappoint, but there is One who will never fail.

The challenge for me is to recognize my every day as a chance to make a difference, not just those days that I have deemed more important. This challenge remains for everyone. Whether stuck in a crappy job or lamenting the one we recently lost, we each have a purpose. We can look to ‘better’ days when we fulfill all our dreams and desires, or we can embrace the life in front of us now.

I plan to do a better job of embracing my children and all the crap that I have to do over and over. Because, truly, my actions will speak louder than my words. One day my children will look back, and I hope they remember a mother who found honor and privilege in her ministry as their mother. And when they look back at their times of making hot dogs and peeing on the floor, I hope they remember how weird they truly were and what a saint I was for dealing with them.