Ps. 119: 64
MONDAY
I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm starting to enjoy evenings in the kitchen. I used to always say that packing lunches was the absolute worst part of being an adult. But I'm beginning to find relaxation and joy in preparing lunch meals for the three of us, browning sausage to toss in a crockpot soup in the morning, washing and chopping fresh vegetables and fruits to store in the fridge, prepping the coffeepot to be switched on in the morning, and maybe sipping on a glass of chocolate milk while I do it all. An hour or two in the kitchen before bed can be a beautiful thing, a bookend to the hour I spend alone in the wee morning hours. (Although 8:00 at night is not very wee.)
I've never been terribly good at food, despite my (sorry excuse for a) first blog. I still couldn't be called a foodie or a particularly skilled cook. But providing food for my family is one of my primary daily tasks and at least I don't dread it anymore.
Got a chore that's become a joy? Add a comment!
TUESDAY
Henry's eyebrow and a wooden crate in the kitchen had a little run-in tonight. He's turning into a brave little boy about most of his tumbles, but this one did make him cry pretty hard. I love watching him be tough, but it's validating to have a tiny body nestle into yours, needing your comfort.
FRIDAY
Illness has been rampant at school ("stomach bug," the parents call it when they write an excuse note for their absent child) but I have considered myself exempt. I don't get sick. I don't get beaten by a virus. I push onward and upward no matter what, refusing to bend to illness.
Then my little boy had diarrhea for a whole day and no appetite and things slowed down a little. BRAT diet, extra rest, extra snuggles, extra diaper changes. Then I came home yesterday afternoon and got slammed with the sickness myself. I haven't vomited in probably 15 years, but when my years of victory over my stomach were brought sourly to an end, when I was finally beaten, I admitted defeat and fell to the beast. And for the first time in a very long time, I accepted a loss of control.
When your body is emptying itself, when you're crouched over the bathtub crying, waiting for the next heave, it's suddenly clear how little you've been in control all along. I'm accustomed to having control. Of my body, of my household, of my time. I don't break things or lose things or forget things. I keep an orderly home and an orderly schedule. I make plans and I keep plans. I don't get sick. I don't lose control. But I was in bed at 3:30 yesterday afternoon. My sweet husband went out to pick up applesauce and PeptoBismal, brought me juice and ice water, cared for our son, put him to bed, cleaned up the kitchen, cleared away my soiled trash can, and didn't say a single word of complaint. The "stomach bug" knocked me to the ground and pinned me there, forcing me to rely on someone else, to admit that I cannot manage alone, that sometimes I cannot keep pressing forward.
And isn't that true even when we're not sick. "Have you ever given orders to the morning, or shown the dawn its place? Have you seen the storehouses of the snow or the hail? Can you count the clouds?" As much as I cling to the illusion of holding my life tightly by the reins, I am not the Driver. My life is one piece of a much bigger story that Someone else is writing. And though He gives me responsibilities along the way, my primary task is to recognize that He's in control.
This morning, as Henry naps and I sip on peppermint tea, I'm grateful to be learning this lesson. I've trained myself to be a mom who does everything, who pushes through, who doesn't leave duties undone. But I am taking a sick day. I am not even putting on mascara. I will not sweep the floors today. I will not do the budget. I will not cook dinner. I might fold the laundry, but I might leave it wrinkling in baskets for another day. The lingering fever and body aches and weakness are reminders that my health and the health of my family are not in my hands. Everything I thought I had under control has ground to a screeching halt and - despite my reluctance to believe it - I've been beaten. And it turns out to be ok.
SATURDAY
This week started out quite calm. I wrote in my planner "remember gratefulness" since I've been lax in recording daily gratefulness in my journal the past few weeks. And the week stepped slowly and peacefully along.
Then we all got sick. The night I was curled up in bed with a fever and an emptied stomach, Henry also threw up in his crib. The next day we both stayed home and Pete came down with the same thing that evening. A sick house doesn't inspire a lot of gratefulness, but if properly considered, it actually should. A washing machine for a crib-ful of messy blankets, a glass of apple juice, half a banana, sunshine and fresh air for a short walk, soup from a sister, all the days when we've been well. And this morning, when we're on the mend again, we are grateful for eggs and hashbrowns, no fever, cold air through an open window, a stack of books, and a mug of coffee.
Healing, on every the smallest of scales, points to a Healer and reminds that health is a daily gift. Today, we are grateful.
SUNDAY
I'm hoping winter's end is in sight, but today's drive home from church, through poem-worthy snowy woods (and over put-the-car-in-neutral! roads), made me glad for one last (please, let it be the last) good snowfall. It lay an inch thick already when we got home, whispering, "Sit by the fire. Make a cocoa. Read a book."
I wanted to give in. But there was work to be done. And organizing our work-in-progress rooms upstairs was nearly as satisfying as an afternoon with a hot mug and a thick book. Good work can be relaxing in its own way.
The weekend closes on a productive note, and after a fancy-for-a-Sunday dinner (recipe here), we sit tonight with steaming mugs (mine a hot cocoa, Pete's a mocha I just invented!) and bright laptop screens, hoping the sleet holds long enough to bring on a delay for tomorrow morning.
I do hope winter's over, but I do love a good 2 hour delay.
Grateful this week for:
clumpy bathtime eyelashes
humor
paid bills
Hide and Seek: Henry and Daddy
crunching ice underfoot
needle and thread through fabric
cardinal beside the road
hippo in one boot, zebra in the other
ponytail
talking, really talking
dry shampoo
washing machine
heating pad
toast and apple juice and banana
fresh air
soup, a gift
snuggles with H
clean laundry
sunlight
birds!
Washing dishes!
ReplyDelete- Husband