Because He Was Hungry

Like most stay-at-home moms, I crave the luxury of adult conversation.  I don't even mind if the conversation is punctuated with side-whispers of "Get your finger out of your nose and find a tissue!" or, "You just had a snack and dinner will be ready in half an hour" or the all too often, "No I don't know where the other Polly Pocket shoe is.  If you put your toys away where they belong, then you always know where to find them."  What was I saying?

Oh, right.  Conversation.  Adult.  It's sooo nice.  I don't care if it's about the weather, the kids, or something intelligent; I just like to talk with other adults.  So when Wednesday rolls around, I really look forward to the Wednesday night dinner at my Heart of the Shepherd, followed by service, because I get to sit with a few friends and kind of chat in between all of the Mom! MOM!  Mooooooooom!-ing.

Yesterday we arrived early on the scene and as I approached the doors to the multi-purpose room where we would be eating, I could see a gentleman sitting at our usual table.  This posed a dilemma for me.  Now, I'm not all territorial and get huffy about someone sitting in my seat, but there are usually only one or two high chairs set out, which is why I sit at that table.  There he was, sitting right next to the only highchair from what I could see.

I've seen him at church before.  We've had one or two brief conversations.  I couldn't tell you his name. So I was faced with a decision- intrude on his personal space and request to sit there with my four noisy children, or deliberately move the highchair to a different spot and look rude.  But there was more to the decision than just that.  I'm an extrovert only by practice.  Given a choice, I would remain with a small circle of friends and not step out of my comfort zone to meet new people.  Further, I find it challenging to start conversation with people who aren't in the same life journey (i.e. young kids) as me.  It's always an easy conversation starter to ask how old your little cutie is or what their name is, but to approach a lone adult, I find very intimidating.  What would I chat with him about?  Certainly he wouldn't find my day to day activities of interest like my mommy friends.

And if I sat with him, I probably wouldn't be sitting with my mommy friends tonight.  Bummer.  It's selfish, I know, but I relish that time of chatting, because outside of my husband, it's one of the few times I get face-to-face time with another adult (unless you count the cashiers at Kroger who probably wonder why I'm so chatty as I go through their line).

All this decision-making turmoil took place in a matter of seconds as I approached the room.  The honest truth is I didn't want to sit with him.  I just wanted to sit with someone I know, who could hear all about my day and tell me about their similar struggles and we could laugh and reassure ourselves that we're doing an okay job at this whole mothering thing.  But God told me to sit with him, even after I noticed that there was another highchair at an unoccupied table.

So I asked if we could join him, perhaps a little begrudgingly.  He nodded.  I asked how he was doing. "Fine," he said.  Nothing more.  Oh dear!  This was going to be hard.  I remembered he had once told me he worked as a caregiver for the elderly.  I asked him if he was still doing that.  "No," came the short reply.

"On to something else?" I asked.

"Yes."

I made small talk with Colette.  Got up and got us drinks.  Wondered if there was anything more I should say or if I should take his short answers as a hint that he wasn't really looking to chat.  I made small talk with another mom who passed our table up for another one with more seating.  And we sat in silence for a few minutes, while I searched my brain for something to say.

"This where they play men's basketball?" he suddenly asked.

"Yes!" I said, maybe a little too enthusiastically.

"You know what time that is?"

I offered what I knew and then he asked what time service was on Sundays.  "There's a Bible Study on Sunday too, right?" he asked.

Now I was smiling.  "There is," I said.  "I teach one of them and we would love to have you join us!"

"Oh really?  What are you studying?"  He seemed all too happy to talk now.

I told him we were studying the book of Ecclesiastes and he inquired what "that one" was about.  I told him it was written by Solomon and that experts suspect he might have struggled with depression.  "It's sort of evident in the first couple of chapters," I said.  "I suppose you could say it's Solomon's journey out of depression; his discovery of purpose."  I told him how I relate to the book because I've had my struggles with depression, too.  I've thirsted for meaning.

"Me too," he said.  He said it sounded like just what he needed.

"Ecclesiastes, huh?  Sunday?  What about now?  Let's do this now!" he laughed.  "Because I'm hungry," he said a little more seriously, hungrily.  He wasn't referencing the meal we were about to receive.  "This," he said with a sweep of his hand, "Is the only thing I've found that fixes it."

We talked through dinner about Solomon's discoveries about the pursuits of life.  We made some small talk.  Then, he shared a recent medical diagnosis and there was evident uncertainty in how he should approach this new way of life.  I encouraged him to see a nutritionist.  I urged him to join us on Sunday.  I found myself caring.  I could have sat somewhere else and missed all of this, simply because I cared about my comfort and my desires.

I felt like the boy who offered up his fish and loaves to feed the five thousand and watched a miracle unfold.  It was a meager offering- as if gracing someone with my presence at the dinner table can be considered an offering at all.  I didn't even do it joyfully, just obediently, but God feeds the hungry.  If it was up to me, well...

He calls us to sit with them.  To break bread.  To get personal, even when it's uncomfortable.  To seek the hurt.  Find the need.  See the hunger.  Because every single person in this world is hungry.

There's only One fix for that.

Then Jesus declared, "I am the bread of life.  He who comes to me will never go hungry, and he who believes in me will never be thirsty." John 6:35

To Freely Give

Saturday started off with a chill, misting rains, and an overcast sky.  I had set aside a few hours of the day to help at the free Dental Day at my Dr. Kellogg's office, Howell Dental Center.  It has only taken Kristin Lewis, the volunteer coordinator for Heart of the Shepherd, about three years of asking for me to finally find a way to participate.  As with any activity that pulls me out of my comfort zone- any unchartered territory with people I don't know- I felt an air of anxiety that beckoned me to turn the car around.  I didn't.  I'm so glad.

I was assigned the food station.  Dozens of people had shown up early in the morning to be the firsts to sign up for dental care they would otherwise not be able to afford.  Dr. Kellogg and his Dental Day crew (particularly Kristin Lewis, whom had been responsible for seeking donations this year) had arranged a free breakfast for all of the patients.  Hot coffee was certainly the most popular item given the weather, but the donuts and bagels were also well received.

In the lull between breakfast and lunch, I took the opportunity to chat with some of the patients.  There were a couple of kids there, so I had fun drawing with chalk while the weather allowed and getting to know a few cuties.  There was a bounce house, crafts, and a petting zoo, all thoughtfully supplied for the long wait.  Meanwhile, there were constant raffle drawings with a ton of prizes and a goal that no one walk away empty handed.  I hope you are feeling the spirit of generosity that was among us Saturday.  It was amazing!

For the first time ever, I seized the opportunity to pray with a complete stranger as a woman shared with me that she had just been diagnosed with lymphoma and needed four teeth pulled before she began chemotherapy.  It was certainly a moment of growth for me, as I learn to be ready for the moments when God places people in front of me whom are in need of ministering.

Lunch came early at ten.  There was plenty for everyone, but we couldn't serve the grilled hot dogs, chips, and cookies fast enough.  Very early in the line, a giant of a man stepped up and it was clear one hot dog just wouldn't be sufficient for a gentleman who towered over me.  We offered him two.  "Could I?  Thanks!" he said, graciously.  I felt this incredible joy that I could so freely give because there was an abundant supply.  I kept hearing everyone's gratitude.  I was thanked over and over again, but I was offering nothing more than a helping hand.  I was surrounded by incredible generosity and all I had done was show up.  I suddenly felt so indescribably blessed and humbled to have been invited to be a part of it.  There were so many who were offering financial support and their talents to make this day happen, and here I was being blessed by the grateful hearts receiving all of this goodness!

I had not purchased the food.  I didn't prepare it.  I was simply a vessel of providing another person's kindness to those in need.  I realized in that moment that I was also receiving a gift that day, just to be a part of their generosity.  That someone should thank me for being there felt incredibly odd, because I couldn't have been anymore grateful to have been invited to be a part of it.  Then a thought suddenly occurred to me that I am invited every day to partake in God's generosity and bless it forward to others.  What an amazing thought!  Anything I am able to give is directly from the hand of God.

Jesus instructed his disciples: Freely you have received, freely give.  How amazing it is that we have received freely from God the gifts of life, talents, and treasures, and we can freely give, because He offers a bountiful supply.  What a wonderful example Dental Day was of the gift it is just to participate in His Abundant Love!  Thank you, Dr. Kellogg and your staff for letting me be a part of it!    

What Can I Say?

Sometimes when I'm trying to maintain good humor over this whole parenting thing, I say, "Hello?!  Can you hear me?  Is this mic on?"  I usually get these deadpan stares from my children, but it makes my husband smile.  If he's really feeling it, he will cup a hand behind his ear and furrow his brow like he has no idea what I'm saying.  At least he acknowledges that I'm trying to say something, because sometimes with the kids I wonder if I've entered a whole new realm- one where I have no physical presence and I have to do something extreme and poltergeist-ish to get their attention, like throw a book across a room.

Of course, when I wish they weren't listening, they're all ears.  Mutter the word "stupid" as you struggle with the stupid Pack 'n' Play that requires more strength to collapse than any stupid jock has, and everybody comes running to hear your confession and plea for mercy because "we don't say stupid in this house."  We don't.  But I have.  And I've even followed up with a justification like, "Well Mommy can say the word "stupid" because she knows the right way to use it and there is no other way of describing this stupid Pack 'n' Play, but by calling it stupid!"

Stupid.

I have stupid moments like that.  I have whole days filled with stupid.  I say stupid things and do stupid things and I hate my stupid self for them sometimes.  And I wish someone would just hold up some cue cards and direct me through what I am supposed to say and when I am supposed to say it, because it all sounds so brilliant when you read it in one of those stupid parenting books, until you repeat it or forget to repeat it when the opportunity arises.

I know there is power in our words; in what we choose to say and how we say it.  There are thousands of blogs and books and articles telling me what I should be saying and what I should never, EVER say:  Be careful when speaking of appearances to your child; body images are  precarious.  Don't use negative self-talk about your own body in front of your child, but don't forget to tell her she's beautiful.  Just don't tell her too much.  Use your judgement on how often.  When praising your child, be careful to use the right words so as not to imply that your love is contingent on the good behavior.  Stay away from words with negative connotations.  Don't be afraid to say, "No."  When reprimanding your child, be certain to express your dislike for the behavior, while expressing love for the child.  Never use the word stupid; even in describing the behavior, which may very well have been stupid- like giving your baby brother a Polly Pocket shoe to play with.  Make explanations short and concise.  Never say, "Because I told you so!"  Children are growing in logic and understanding; their curiosity demands explanation.  Don't feel like you have to explain yourself all the time; it undermines your authority as the parent who knows best.

Knows best?!  I don't know what I'm doing!  

Try as I may, I've said the wrong thing and I still don't know all of the right things to say and I'm certain I will say the wrong thing many more times and I'll even say what I think is the right thing only to find out years later in a tearful accusation that it was the wrong thing to say.  I have fears of that.  There are moments when I can't sleep because I wonder if today was the day that I permanently scarred my child.  Maybe saying that she can't dress like a princess every day because she's "not actually a princess and I don't have a royal clothing budget so just put on some jeans for crying out loud!" wasn't the best way to encourage her to explore other wardrobe options.

Do these worries consume you other parents?  I am specifically asking the parents that haven't written books confidently telling me that if I just said this my kid will turn out a normal, well-adjusted adult.  I have to imagine that even those parents have said the wrong thing according to their own standards.  The tongue is awfully hard to control even when I have rehearsed all of my lines.  But if there is one message I plead with God that my children hear, it is the message that I so desperately need to hear too.

There is grace.

It's not pre-proportioned.  You can't use it all up, but it's best not to test the limits.  It's abundant and new with every morning.  There is grace when I mess up and there is grace when you mess up too.  We mess up.  Mommies make mistakes.  And kids make mistakes.  And there is grace enough to cover over all of it.  Sometimes we know it's a mistake and we do it anyway.  There's grace for that too.  There is grace for the days when we are not graceful or grace-filled or gracious.  There is grace when we don't want it and grace when we think we don't need it.  There is grace when we forget to ask for it.

I have been the baffled parent who finds herself tongue-tied in the midst of a tantrum.  I have battled ugly words with ugly words.  I have said too little.  I have said too much.  Haven't we all?  There are thousands of words we can say to a child, but there is one message that we must get through.  "For by grace you have been saved through faith.  And this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God."  Ephesians 2:8

I believe even when I have said the wrong words, the message of grace can prevail when I humble myself enough to say, "Forgive me."  More importantly, I believe that even when I say the "right" words, it is still grace that saves.  It is not my work, but His.  And His grace is sufficient for me and all of my shortcomings, because His power is made perfect even in my moments of weakness.  I have to remind myself of this when this world tells me that my words can save or sever my child's future.  If I put too much weight on the words that I say, I will forget that there is only one Word that saves.

Grace.  Undeserved.  Inexplicable.  Unequivocal.  By the grace of God, we are saved.  

Let us then with confidence draw near to the throne of grace, that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need.  Hebrews 4:16

 

Make Me A Vessel

Yesterday was just one of those days.  I haven't had one in awhile, so I suppose I was due.  Matthew didn't nap, and every time there was a hint of hope that I might get a moment's peace, one of the girls would get rowdy and wake him before I could even get him in bed.  I was frustrated and tired and not in the right mood to head to Family Adventure Camp at Heart of the Shepherd.

It was day 3 of our church's form of Vacation Bible School, a highly anticipated event for my children. It is fun for them, but it can be exhausting for me and the kids, so it was no surprise that they were bickering over crayons by the end of the night.  All of the nudging that I felt to turn the moment into a teaching moment and to meet their crankiness with opportunity to show love and service to one another, I simply ignored.  I was just. too. tired.

I excused myself from the table, letting my husband take the lead.  Matthew and I slipped away to a quiet room where I plotted my retaliation.  Should I tell them we are not going to tomorrow's activities? Should I make them give up the privilege of "buying" trinkets with the tickets they were earning throughout the day?  All seemed fair enough.  After all, we were supposed to be learning how to serve others with good attitudes and they certainly weren't bringing their part of the bargain to the table.

Neither are you.  God spoke softly to my heart.

I tried to ignore it and indulge my sorrows some more. This summer has been ridiculously busy.  I haven't had a moment to myself.  The days are a whirlwind of activity and the nights never hold the rest I am promised.  I was tired.  Tired of serving, and coaching, and cheerleading, and disciplining, and thinking of ways to turn disastrous meltdowns into "teaching moments."  I was tired of pulling out the good attitude when the bad one beckoned.  So I grumbled to myself that if my children weren't learning the lesson of serving each other, we had no business being here.  I certainly didn't need to be here to learn how to serve others.  I do it enough.  All. day.  So forgive me, God, but I just want to sit hear and rest for a minute and not do my job.  Don't You get that?!

I sent my husband home with all four of the children, swallowing down some guilt that he would likely have a baby crying for his Mama the whole time while he tried to get the additional three Cranky Pants in bed.  "I'm going to help clean up," I said.  It was a guise of needing to serve others so I could indulge in a different venue where kids weren't the background noise.  

I don't think I was really needed there, but I needed to be there, because God reached out to me, like he often does when I'm throwing one of my temper tantrums.  I had only been free of children for a few minutes, when Kelly (the wife of one of our pastors) told me her 2 year old daughter had something to tell me.  I looked down at her sweet little cherub-like face and she proclaimed, "I said a prayer for you today!"  It blessed me to no end.

And it convicted me.  Why did little Vera pray for me?  Certainly, she didn't sense that I needed it.  If I had asked her, she probably could not have articulated any particular reason.  But I know why she did, because the Kingdom of Heaven belongs to little ones such as her.  Because she was an open vessel for God's love and when He pressed on her heart to pray for me, she didn't make excuses like, "I hardly know her," or, "She might think that's a little weird," or, "She doesn't really deserve it, because she's never really ever done anything for me."  She just followed in child-like trust and obedience, because God had a purpose for her prayer.

As we grow older, we find all sorts of excuses not to do the things that God asks of us.  We mistakenly call them "reasons."  Last night I saw in a little child's simple demonstration, how following God's leading can greatly impact another, beyond what we may even be able to comprehend as we follow through with His request.

When we act in obedience and offer with the right attitude, it is then that God's love is revealed.  Though my "offerings" this week may have appeared sacrificial and even obedient, my attitude was something entirely different.  I harbored in my heart stress, selfish ambition, greed, and anger, but somehow expected it to breed love. I had prefaced each day with a warning that if my kids weren't willing to show me that they deserved to go to Family Adventure Camp, I wouldn't be taking them.  I made it clear that it wasn't necessarily a priority on my list, but it was a service to them, and I expected them to show me how grateful they were for all the additional stress and work each day provided.  I was pouring out an attitude that didn't speak of love and service.  From where did I expect my kids to get the right attitude?

I keep thinking of little Vera, holding her mommy's hand, saying those sweet words to me, and I am humbled by God's grace to reach out to me through this little vessel filled with His love.  I admire the work He can do with a willing attitude.  I had accomplished little the entire week, but in a brief moment, God lifted my spirits and renewed my heart and attitude.

How much can He use me if I refuse to empty myself of sin?  What partnership can His love have with a poor attitude?  How easily I forget. How needful that I be reminded.  How humbling that my messenger was two.  How grateful I am to be emptied and filled all at once.

It's About Gratitude

When my brother signed up for the service in the midst of his senior year, I had mixed emotions of dread and annoyance.  I was twenty years old and engulfed in my own selfish pursuits and couldn't quite wrap my head around my little brother's decision.  Foreign affairs were growing tense at the time, though I gave little attention to it, but in the air, even the apathetic could feel that war was coming.

Being only two years apart (to the day as we share the same birthday), it is likely I couldn't have persuaded my brother had I tried.  I feared for him, but it was more of a selfish fear of having to dedicate my mind and thoughts to deeper things than my romantic ponderings.  So I largely ignored the sacrifice that he faced as he went off to boot camp and then on to Germany, and after 9/11, Iraq.  I was managing a shoe store, bought a new car, was getting married.  It didn't mesh with my mentality- to think about what he was doing "over there" while I was here, obliging the pursuit of happiness.

So when Memorial Day and Fourth of July come around, I feel unworthy to hold in honor men I don't know, when one that I do know received very little support from me during his time of sacrifice.  But now I understand it is my duty.  They are men and women who are taken for granted, misunderstood, and neglected.  The bravery and the sacrifice they offer is beyond what I can comprehend.

Last year I took my children to a Memorial Day Parade.  We clapped for the service men and women and the parade was over in no more than five minutes.  We had enticed the kids along through their morning routine with the dangling of excitement over a parade, and lips started to tremble when we told them it was over and time to go home.  Nobody tossed any candy.  There weren't any marching bands or floats.  It wasn't the parade they were promised.  As I tried to ward off their tears, I began explaining that "this parade was never about us," and I found myself grasping that truth for the first time.  It was never about me, or my kids.  It's always been about something much bigger.  What they- those service men and women- stand for is something much bigger.  It's freedom, it's country, it's sacrifice.

My job is gratitude.

With Memorial Day approaching, I found myself asking which parade would be best to attend this year, recalling the disappointment from the past year.  It became very clear to me where we belonged.  Not at some big extravaganza, but the same parade that will likely draw even less of an audience this year.  This year, as a family we have been working on tokens of appreciation to hand to the soldiers, because I don't want my kids to be confused about why we came.  We aren't coming for entertainment or to get candy, but to give thanks, small as it may seem in light of what we received in return.

On Monday, take the time to go to a parade or a Memorial service.  When those men and women march by, clap for them.  When your hands get tired, keep clapping, because when they were tired they didn't have a choice to stop.  And when your hands hurt from clapping, push yourselves to clap a little louder, because many of them pressed on in pain.  And it's okay to tear up when you think about the ones that never got the opportunity to march.  That is what you are supposed to do.  

What I Never Knew

I always called her "Mom," but I never fully understood what that word embodied.  I've wished her many a Happy Mother's Day without the capacity to appreciate.

She used to say, "I'm so tired, I could cry!"  Or, "I'm dead on my feet."  Or, "I've spent all day in this kitchen!"  I chalked it up to the melodrama of adulthood.  After all, I knew what it was like to be tired after staying up late to chat on the phone and then getting up at 5:45am to start my school routine and I had never been so tired I could cry.  Dead on my feet had to be an exaggeration.

I get it now.  Tired is no longer fit to describe it.  Try exhausted and we might be getting somewhere.

I remember her splaying her hands out before me, in an attempt to draw some sympathies for the cracked knuckles and nails from all of the scrubbing of laundry and dishes and bathrooms.  I wondered what the fuss was about a few surface cuts.  I understand now how it is to face down that steaming sink of dishes after every meal and the wounds that don't heal.  How can your hands be wet all day and lack any moisture of their own at the day's end?  How is it possible that just holding something can cause your knuckles to bleed?  I hold my own hands out to my children and plead, "Mommy can't bear to wash her hands one more time today!" and know that the only other person who can understand is the one I never afforded any sympathy.

She signed up for it, after all.  That was my reasoning.  All those kids, all those dishes, the never ending circle of meals to make and meals to clean up.  She decided to do things the hard way and preserve peaches and pears and tomatoes and pickles all over a hot stove in the heat of summer.  Why would she choose to do that?!  I groaned about the additional heat in the home, the sour smell of the pickle relish that permeated the air, and the fact that she had tied herself to the home so that she couldn't chauffeur us to the respite on the shores of the beach.  Only years later can I understand the security behind all of those jars lined up in the basement; the best of the season preserved at a fraction of the price one pays through the winter.  Who knows what "they" put in those jars of Vlasic, but we had pure, premium goodness, because of her sacrifice.  For years, I took it for granted.  I never once paused to understand the sacrifice she packed into those jars until I was dead on my feet and HOT from canning all day long.

I used to hate that she never bought any convenience food at the store.  While other kids had HoHo's and Twinkies in their lunches, I at times woefully unpacked the fresh baked cookies in my own.  With nine people in our house, she had to make cookies about every 3 to 4 days for years on end.  Now, the cookie tin is one of the first things I hunt out when I come to visit.

I never knew that you really could make someone feel like "dirt" when you messed up the freshly cleaned bathroom with your sloppy toothbrushing habits.  I get now why it made you feel like you "don't even exist," because an entire day's worth of work in waxing the kitchen floor can disappear with a pair of muddy shoes on the feet of the careless.

I didn't understand why it was such a big deal that I spilled my milk at dinner when you. just. got. to. sit. down.  I never knew that I could actually break your heart with a huff of disrespect or the accusation that "I was probably adopted because you love everybody more than me!"  I couldn't possibly have known that your blood pressure really did rise at the sight of a messy room that minutes ago had been clean. I didn't know that hearing the word "Mom!" one more time could really make you crazy.  I never understood why the millions of little squabbles with my siblings ever affected her.  Why did she care that I thought my brother was stupid?

I never knew that I could truly humiliate her with my own actions; that my actions spoke to the world about her parenting and opened her up to the judgements of every onlooker.  I need to find a purse big enough to crawl into, because God knows I have frequently felt the need to find a place to hide when my children have acted up in public.  God knows and she knows.

I never knew what the big deal was that you carried me for nine months after already having done it 3 times before and THEN choosing to do it 3 more times.  How can one really understand until they have offered their body in this way- to host a new life that will be as much a part of your own life as it will take away a part of your own life?

I never knew the fear that can accompany a seemingly small decision- that you can actually feel the burden of your child's future in the decisions that you make.  It rests on your shoulders, invades your dreams if you're lucky enough to enter sleep, and haunts you when you make the wrong one.

I never knew that moms actually dread disciplining because it really does hurt her more than it hurts you.  I use to look forward to the day I'd wear the Iron Fist and I silently promised not to rule my own children so sternly.  I never knew that everyday would be a balancing beam of the thin and dangerous line between too much mercy and too much leniency.

I never knew.  I suppose I could not have known until I reached this point in my own life.  And while I want to say I have earned the right to enjoy this coming Mother's Day, I have not at all.  Six years of it doesn't hold a candle to the number of years it took for her to see the fruits of her labors.  I have a lot of half-hearted well-wishing to make up for.  Happy Mother's Day, Mom.  This time I really mean it, because I really get it.  Thank you for never giving up all of those days of tiring and thankless sacrificing.  You have earned the right to sit back and fully enjoy watching your grandkids drive your daughter nuts.  I deserve it.

The Voice Above the Noise

I've never been too daring when it comes to carnival or amusement park rides.  The riskiest of my repertoire at the annual visit to the county fair was the Tilt-O-Whirl (a slightly more exciting version of the tea cups at Disney World).  It was an older sibling that had convinced me I was able to tolerate the ride and I surprised myself in doing just that.

Years later, after finding myself very comfortable with the  ride, I decided to pass the baton of confidence down to my younger siblings, Brad and Melonie, and coaxed them onto the whirling ride.  They were probably around the ages of 6 and 7, although I can't say for sure.  It was to my complete dismay that seconds into the ride, they both started crying.  I could offer them no comfort and as their hysteria grew, I found fears welling up inside me that I long thought had been conquered.  I'm pretty sure the carnival employee had some sick enjoyment watching the three of us plead to, "STOP the ride!" as we only seemed to go faster.  I never set foot on the Tilt-O-Whirl again.  Even as a high schooler, I was the dependable attendant to everyone's belongings as they went thrill seeking from ride to ride.

Have you ever felt like that in life?  Yesterday I just wanted to shout, "STOP the ride!  I'd like to get off please."  There was nothing unusual about the day, other than my thoughts spinning beyond my control.  All of the regular tasks and demands met my feet as they slipped out of bed to the floor, but defeat was whispering in my ear before I could even get started.

If we listen, there are hundreds of voices telling us how we need to spend the minutes of our day. Outside of the children who have their own agenda for me and a husband who stands to be neglected  in their midst if I'm not diligent in my dedication; there are times when walking through my house makes me feel like I am on a self-guided tour of failures.  There is the scale that tells me I should carve out some time to exercise and it's housed in a bathroom that speaks of negligence.  Piled on the nightstand in my bedroom are books I have planned to read for several months, which reminds me that I have been avoiding editing my own book that hangs in limbo on my computer.  I opened the fridge to make breakfast and faced two pounds of spinach on the verge of decay that I had purchased with the intent to cook and freeze.  And I couldn't help but notice there was the tell-tale indications of a fridge in need of purging.  Breakfast added dishes to the pile that had mysteriously appeared in the night and above the pile, hung a prayer board in need of some updates.  All the while I had been attempting to run Julia to the bathroom every fifteen minutes in the hopes that she would be potty-trained by the end of the week.

The day progressed- if one could call it progress as my kids took on their regular routine of strewing about toys and debris faster than one mommy could instruct them to pick up- and I felt like I was spinning.  I sought a moment of quiet found in no better place than blogging about a God Who is good and gracious to the weary and burdened... but Matthew sought to be fed again and again and Julia sought the attentions of mommy rather than a nap and that pesky dinner hour was approaching faster than usual.

Still, it was nothing that I don't face on a regular day.  The Tilt-O-Whirl was spinning no faster than normal and yet, my head was screaming for the ride to stop.  Why did fear well inside me, then?  Why did I feel like the day, this life, was unmanageable?

Because I listened to every voice, but One.  I had just finished grumbling to myself that there wasn't enough time in the day for me to do anything I wanted to do when it was met with a thought.  There is nothing in this day that God has called me to do that I haven't been given the time to do it in.  In other words, whatever tasks God was calling me to do that day, He was also supplying the time for.  My job was simply to determine those tasks from the additional ones I had piled on myself.  

When days spin out of my control, it does not mean that He is any less in control.  It means that my priorities are not aligning with His.  I re-examined my day, scaling down to the necessities and focusing on what God wanted from my day.  It wasn't a clean fridge, but the spinach was tended to.  He didn't ask of me to potty train Julia, that had been my own deadline set simply because her sisters were trained at this age.  I found calm returning and order restored even among the bathrooms that never got wiped down.

There is a difference between what God wants from my day and what I want.  Too often I want a clean home, when He has asked me to minister to a friend.  Or I scramble after Pinterest-worthy projects, when He asks me to mold my children's character.  Today He said, "Blog!" when I was ready to tackle those bathrooms that have attracted another day's layer of toothpaste.

I'm beginning to realize that God has not called me to be a tidy homemaker, as much as this causes me to panic in my heart at what people will think about this admission.  I'm not saying that I am going to let housekeeping go out the window, but I do need to let go of some of these day to day distractions that keep me from focusing on what I am certain God has called me to do.  I know God wants me to instruct my children in His ways, to partner with my husband in achieving his dreams and to write to inspire.  The rest is just noise that I have to learn to filter or I will face too many more days like yesterday.

What can you say God is most certainly calling you to do today and what is distracting you from doing it?