Ps. 119:137-138
Some weeks whiz by in a blur. Others plod along for so long that you actually feel older by the end. This week was the plodding type.
Tuesday was our school's annual Serve-a-Thon in which the entire school body fans out over the local community, completing service projects along with teachers and parent volunteers. We went with Pete's homeroom class, the seventh grade, to a local camp grove to help with outdoor cleanup. It was tiring work, raking leaves that had piled up since October, matted down with earthworms and spiders, on a day with the highest pollen count of the spring. We scooped them onto big tarps, heaved the tarps into the back of a pickup truck, then watched the camp's grounds manager drive them off into the woods for dumping while we started on the next round of raking. Some of our students were excellent workers, barely stopping to take a break. Others were less accustomed to hard work and became easily exhausted. I tried to set a good example by avoiding the temptation to stand idle and lean on my rake when there was work to be done, but I'm embarrassed to admit how wearied I felt at the end of the day. Two days later I still ached from head to toe.
The hard work must have flipped the power button on my immune system because then I came down with a nasty cold and could barely keep my eyes open at work as the week ever so slowly dwindled down. I told my boss on Thursday, "Have a great weekend!" Oops.
Spending a day with kids who are still figuring out who they are led us to discuss our own seventh-grade selves on the drive home Tuesday afternoon. "Don't you think you're really the same person you were in seventh grade?" asked Pete. "Oh, I think I've matured quite a bit," I said. But as I thought back on my middle school career - the shifting friendships, the bitternesses I hoarded, the selfish motives behind every smile, the social tiers I constantly stacked and restacked in my mind - I blushed with the realization that much of that is still rooted in my heart. "As we grow up we just learn to hide our bad tendencies," Pete said. And I think he's right. In my heart, I'm not much different than I was fifteen years ago. A bit more mature, I hope. A bit more aware when I'm thinking or acting wrongly. But the tendrilling vines of the exact same faults still creep along the edges of my heart, thriving even when I think I've already uprooted them. Do they ever get completely yanked out?
While I was whining about my sore and achey body, macho husband moved right along to his next service project: our own front walkway. Thursday evening he dug out one of the edge beams, deepened the trench it rests in, and reset it. Love this tough man.
The weekend brought a long sweet rest after a long wearying week. We stayed up late on Friday, after a dinner with Pete's parents. Teriyaki chicken, curry couscous, salad, and a fancy fruit pavlova for dessert made our patio feel like a five-star restaurant. On Saturday's chilly morning we walked into town to have breakfast at a little cafe we'd never tried before. We were delighted with coffee, omelet, french toast, and silver dollar pancakes and walked home in a drizzly rain with full and happy tummies. With no agenda for the rest of the day, we let the hours roll past, unburdened by the stress of long lists. A big bowl of popcorn and an episode of PBS's Nature about Ireland's Shannon River lulled us to sleep at the close of the day. After church on Sunday, Pete and Henry surprised me with lunch at our local Italian restaurant. Henry was a gem, playing with straw wrappers while we waited for our food, sitting patiently on my lap for the entire meal, licking ketchup off fries, sharing bites of my cheesesteak, and smiling at passers-by. He went right to sleep for his nap when we got home while Pete and I sat on the floor in the den, windows open on both sides of the room, fresh spring air sighing through as he graded papers and I worked on this post. These are the days that give weekends a good reputation.
Since I'm finishing out today's post on Mother's Day, I'm thinking more than usual about my Mom and my Mom-in-Law and the way they help sustain our family. Both have very busy schedules, richly packed lives full of responsibilities and duties across many settings. Both have raised kids of their own and still have husbands who need them and homes to care for and aging parents who need attention. But both make time several days each week to help me. They watch Henry while I'm at work, making it possible for me to keep my job without placing Henry in expensive daycare. I'd rather not need help. I'd rather do it all myself - be a full-time mom, keep up my work at the school, manage the household, prepare three healthy meals a day, complete the occasional crafty project - and not need to rely on anybody else. But to keep my pride in check, God has given me a life that I can't juggle alone. I need help. And I could not do the life I'm doing without these two women. They remind me every single day that we are not meant to walk life alone, particularly not motherhood. I'm not always grateful. Often I'm so frazzled by everything I'm trying to keep afloat that I don't realize how much they're helping. But if I try to imagine walking this journey without them, I'm humbled to recognize the weight of what they do each week. They make my life possible.
Thank you, Moms. You model Christ's love and sacrifice consistently and faithfully. My whole family is blessed daily by your sweet love.
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| A year ago, Mother's Day, 2014. Henry's baptism day. |
Grateful this week for:
bandaids
fresh breezes
sidewalks
Henry's "woofwoof"
a vase of garden greens
meuringe
whipped cream
a needed nap
local eateries
online library catalog
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