It’s 6:00 a.m.—-a Sunday. I meander into the kitchen to brew coffee, and I’m greeted with a scene that mirrors the aftermath of Nagasaki. Of course, that is hyperbole, yet at the same time it’s the only simile that seems apt.
Four empty boxes of Kraft macaroni and cheese litter my counter, yes FOUR. I can write my name in the powdery cheese dust left on stove top. I notice a shiney light not normally illuminated so early in the day. Shoulders shrug when my foggy morning brain realizes the oven has been left on all night long. Apparently the group of three friends sleeping in Josie’s room wanted frozen pizza some time after 10:30 when my tired body said goodbye to Saturday. As the cancel button beeps, I grin from ear to ear. Then I audibly laugh at the joy I feel in my soul when absorbing the details of this room. Yes, joy!
There is a mountain of shoes by my backdoor and a smaller hill of shoes discarded by the front. I sit at the bar counter and soak in the details of the mess and wish it could last forever. If I wake to this kind of mess every morning for the rest of my life, I’d be ok with that. The mess is a gift. Quickly I snap out of my reverie and hurry upstairs. I need to get Isaiah, the youngest one, ready for church. So much to be done on a Sunday morning when dad is the pastor.
Check weather app and realize Isaiah will need long pants, and I brace for battle. “No jeans! I hate jeans!” He stomps and shrugs, and I try to negotiate quietly, as not to wake the six extra friends, three with each daughter, sleeping in the bedrooms nearby. Finally, Isaiah retorts with his witty words, “I hate jeans! Jeans deserve to be pooped in.” Ok, ok, white flag waved. Jeans are not a battle worth waging on this brisk Sunday morning. But, I smile and bite my bottom lip as I think about the odd rebuttal I just heard from my wily son. I learned early in our ministry not to wage minor battles before church because it squelches the opportunity for the Spirit to work. Angry hearts marching into the sanctuary was never God’s plan. Blessed are the peacemakers…pants are not worth a fight.
I thank the Lord for the child who always keeps me on my toes—the one whom I just never know what will fly off of his young lips. I return to the John Deere room to return folded jeans to bottom drawer. Suddenly, sharp piercing pain shoots up my foot. I birthed this son of mine without any pain sedative, yet until this moment I do not think I truly experienced the top of the pain spectrum. He came too quickly to administer an epidural; not even an advil was swallowed, and the boy has been going 100 mph since that first day in August, nine years ago. Dazed by the pain, I try to process why I feel like I’ve been stabbed. Blended into brown carpet I see the culprit—-a tiny plastic, antlered deer lays directly in path from door to dresser. Even though I can hardly walk, even though I’ll likely be late to Sunday School because teary eyes necessitate that I reapply eye makeup, I smile because I realize “someday I will miss moments like this.”
The messy kitchen, the mountain of shoes, the arguments over “poopy jeans”—-all these moments make my heart full. My house is lived in. My kids feel comfortable enough to make memories and messes. Their friends rest easily in this place. No one fears constant chastisement and yelling. My son’s imaginative playfulness causes toys to litter the floor, and that is ok with me.
JOY in the chaos. Memories in the making. I love what is happening here. I am so thankful for the wisdom the Lord is bringing, and the peace He is lavishing on my once high-strung soul. What a gift this life truly is, and I refuse to spend it fretting over the mess and the chaos. Instead I choose to embrace each moment and give thanks. Cheese dust is grace. Scattered toys are grace. Each moment is redemption because my marriage once hung by a torn and tattered thread, yet God redeemed. Praise His Holy name.
Embrace the chaos. Thank God for your pain. “Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of heavenly lights…” James 1:17
