Thirty minutes

I have thirty minutes to myself, and my head is spinning with the possibilities of how to use them.  My stove looks like a volcano of molten grease erupted onto it.  There's laundry in the basement as high as my knees.  There is a layer of dust on this very computer screen that makes me feel as if I'm wearing sunglasses while typing.  There are crumbs stuck to my heels. There is a layer of fuzz atop the rugs that have not been vacuumed in three weeks.  The blankets laying on top of those rugs are crusted in my son's spit up. And there is a half made dinner abandoned in the fridge with the knowledge that I will not have enough time to make that homemade pot of chicken soup I've been craving since the cool wind blew in yesterday.  Eew. Ugh. Where do I begin?  In characteristic fashion, I avoid all of it to write or read or hang my head in despair and hope that some kind cleaning lady who has a slow day will drive by my house and realize there's a woman inside who needs help now.

Last night my husband gently shushed my blabbering mouth and told me to go to bed. He then proceeded to clean the entire house.  In the spirit of camaraderie and guilt, I instead fought my way into the play room, folding laundry as I went, so my children could actually play in their space when they woke up. Two hours and four loads later, it was done.  And I could finally go to bed (that is, of course, after I put sheets on the bed).

I'm not sure what overwhelms me more most days, the sheer number of tasks required of a mother with three children five and under or the emotional energy of being with those children all day every day. They whine and cry and fight and eat and sleep and poop all the while systematically undoing each and every task I may have managed to accomplish in the midst of their needs. 

It is very easy to lose one's sense of purpose in the windstorm of all this activity.  I love a windy fall day, but after a while, I like to retreat into the warmth of my house, where I get a break from the noise, the cold, and the debris flying about me.  I like to find a quiet space and read a book and sip a cup of coffee and gather my thoughts.  The challenge lately is how to retreat and when.  The answer, I'm realizing, is that in the absence of physical space and time, I will have to cultivate peace inwardly.

My friend Lisa called today at just the right (God) moment.  I'm reading this book again, she says, and I found a couple of pages I think you need to hear. Uh oh. When one of my close friends tells me she thinks I need to hear something, that something is usually a little convicting. "OK, go for it," I tried to make my voice sound chipper, but I was bracing myself for the moment where I would have to own my stuff and swallow the bitter with the sweet.  The message was this: anxiety (my specialty weakness) is the fruit of not trusting God.

"If fear keeps our lives small, does a life that receives all of God in this moment grow large too?

I light candles and slice bread for dinner" (Voskamp).

How I love that line.  Our lives kept small by fear. I make the mistake sometimes of thinking my life is kept small by mindless tasks that require little of my intellect and all of my patience.  I would like to receive all of God all of the time, and yet I spend my days with my head close to the ground, my hands dirty, my body aching with the weight of carrying a baby on each hip, my mind swimming from the constant drain of shaping emerging humans. Perhaps I can figure out how to let my soul rest while my body works.  Perhaps this new season of motherhood will teach me how to cultivate an inner spiritual peace that feeds the physical requirements of caring for young children. I don't know how this will all work out yet. And I don't know how I will find time to delve into God's word the way I know I should.

The sun warms the ground in short bursts today, but most of the time it remains entangled in the nest of clouds swirling the blue.  There is an edge to the air that speaks of fall. There is an edge to my heart that speaks of doubt.  I will wait for more sun.