It was an ordinary day. It was a day just like another one I have seemed to live a thousand times. It was million things all wrapped into one that made it ordinary. My husband tells me life is lived in the mundane...the ordinary. My heart doesn’t always like the mundane…because well, it’s mundane. I find myself wandering, wanting something more, something exquisite. I want the “perfect day.” And even when I have the seemingly perfect day, I want another perfect day up ahead. But he’s right. Life is lived in the mundane, every day gathered moments. Those moments that make up the roots of our trees-most of them are nothing out of this world. They are the small, seemingly insignificant drops in time, given by God, that make us who we are.
This ordinary day of mine was the 5:45 am wakeup call from that 7-month, brown eyed baby girl I’m still trying to figure out. It was the bickering between siblings that seems to be a persistent beat in our home. It was the navigating of this ship I call family-trying to shepherd them, trying to teach their little hearts the importance of going to their brother or sister before they come to me with their hurt. It was the drop in my gut as the bickering began to crescendo yet again, and it was the joy rising just as fast as the noise silenced under the “please stop,” and the “I’m sorry.” Maybe, just maybe, they are figuring this Matthew 28 thing out. It was the picking up of my devotional for the fifth time, just to have a kid stand right in front me, doe eyed, waiting for me to draw them in under the blanket…into my safe place…to create a safe place of their own.
It was the chaos we woke up to-that messy house, the unsurety of what clothes were clean and dirty in that catch all room of mine. It was the last-minute planning to go out for the day as a family. It was the stress going down as the kids pitched in-unloading dishes, packing lunches, cleaning up the bathroom-all the toilet paper strewn from who knows what, the dirty diaper that never made it to the trash, that one day old peed in underwear I didn’t know was there. How do my kids even survive?... It was the ready working together and the lecturing to the less willing to strive together as a family of God.
It was that man of mine, that soul friend, looking into my eyes as I worked the kitchen, telling me, “You look nice today.” It was my heart skipping a beat knowing he meant it. And I wonder…Does he know that my heart still does that?...skips for him. It was the stop he made at my favorite coffee shop on our way out to the lake. How does he know? How does he know how to fill my cup so well? It was the decision to order the “birthday cake” special. Because who doesn’t love coffee, and who doesn’t love cake? It was Tina calling me by name, boosting my spirits the way that she does when she asked if I wanted sprinkles on top. It’s like she knew today was one of those days-one of those ordinary days that needed sprinkling.
It was the drive. The oldest reading in the back. The boy being the boy that he is-ready for adventure, wondering what we are going to do today. The younger girls becoming impatient. I think-is there ever a child who doesn’t say those four words- “Are we there yet?” It was the sharing of coffee with the kids, the few sips they lingered on to, and the big question of which coffee was better, moms or dads? It was the disappointment when the weather turned south, and the rain started to come. The wondering what we were going to do now. It was the annoyance I felt with this soul friend of mine when he was bummed about the weather. Does he think I am God? I can’t change the weather, but he CAN change his attitude. It was the biting of my tongue, the trying to be strong, saying we would make the most of the moment, with the weather God planned for this day. It was the tongue that came loose when he asked me to figure out where we were so we could figure out a Plan B. Doesn’t he know me? Whatever direction I’m facing is north…how can he not know that? It was the hurt I felt as this rain seemed to be raining on me. It was the exchange of sorries and the grace we gave.
It was the left turn that took us further than we planned. How often doesn’t life do that? Take a left turn. I wonder how this will go…what will become of this veering away from the original destination. It was the immediate potty break you do with all those little ones. The walking out over the bridge, the kids lifting their binoculars to their faces-the one pair broke, the other a fisherprice, the kind that you click the button and an eagle, or a waterfall magically appears. It was the wonder my four-year old portrayed as she told me she saw ALL kinds of animals on this adventure of ours with that piece of plastic in her hands. It came in the girls who couldn’t help but give silly faces when posing for pictures, because what is fun about fake smiling? Why can’t life be a little less serious I think…why do I always want them to put a smile on…
It was the daughter holding on to her Daddy’s hand. She trusts him. Walking stick in one hand, father’s hand in another. I understand. I see the beauty in it and take it in. I don’t want it to pass. Please don’t let this moment pass.
Then there were the trees. Those belly up trees, roots all exposed. I can’t help but look. A bit of ugly and beautiful all intertwined. They look old, beat down to the core from a life of toil. I wonder what their story is-how much rain fell down on them, when their leaves finally withered for good, giving way to their nakedness, what birds found solace in their branches, how they looked on a sunny day when everything was filled with promise. I wonder what tipped these wise trees to the ground. Oh yes…my heart ponders…my Savior hung on a tree…. Surrounded by swamp area, I see broken trees with a broken story. It’s as if they have a valley of tears surrounding them. As if this swamp area provided life for only so long until it finally plummeted these strongholds to the ground. Our daughter’s feet start to sink in the tears of these trees. The panic sets in, her hands thrown in the air, wailing for help, as she feels her feet drowning in this pit of sorrow. This is me so often Lord. I am this needy sapling surrounded by the sorrows of swamp land.
It came in the older ones climbing the hills alone, feeling safe enough under our watch to venture out on their own. It was there in the toad that hopped by, taking the kids along as it interrupted our lunch.
And there it was as we walked the winding trail. It was the crossing of the bridge, and the looking to the left and right. The way ahead looking barren. So desolate. So much like an unknown journey. “Mom! It’s the Dangerous Journey! We are pilgrims! ” They are Christian, from Pilgrims Progress, headed to the celestial city. We race, we veer off the path into the Slough of Despond, all those muddy places. We come across toddler giants named Despair and Diffidence. Little feet take a wrong turn, and we walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death with our friend Faithful. And we keep walking this ordinary day pretending we are pilgrims, when there is really no reason to pretend.
It was written in the sand with our sticks. We etched our names, doodled coffee mugs and sloths, carved “Jesus is good” in those grains. Like if we wrote it all there, it somehow wouldn’t be forgotten. That we were somehow leaving our mark on this world. Why do we want so badly to be remembered? Thinking maybe if it was inked there, that it would tattoo this day onto our hearts. I remember Jesus stooping to the ground in the book of John, writing with his finger, “as though he heard them not.” (8:6). How does He do that so perfectly? I recall the Pharisaical setup, and Jesus etching words onto this woman’s heart, “Neither do I comdemn thee: go and sin no more.”(8:11) I make a mental note to look it up in marked up Bible when I get home…that place I cut my learnings into.
It was a million things that morning. I see it in all the hidden places of the day. That it was the broken way that was the beautiful way. That the best kind of love was the mundane broken kind. It was the annoyance over directions mixed together with the way he bore into my soul when he told me he loved me. It was the looking into their eyes, slow and deep when they spoke to me, trying to hold a safe place for them, blended with the chaos of their bickering. It was the son on my chest, the kids all huddled close to me, their fortress, taking in the clouds that overtook the blueness of the sky after we endured our race to the celestial city. We wonder what that city will be like. It was the hot dog with no bun and the spilled chocolate milk at the gas station restaurant. It was the fire we had, giving flame to all the blessings of the day. It was the younger girls mixing their voices in two different songs, one singing “This is my commandment that you love one another,” and the other “Rejoice in the Lord always.” Yes, serve one another, rejoicing in the Lord, that your joy maybe full. Emptying yourself is a filling of self. God empties us to make us full. He emptied Jesus to make me full. They are overflowing me with their rejoicing. So out of tune, but so perfectly pitched. It was all these notes of the day that tuned my heart to sing His praise. It was this extraordinary ordinary day He gave. Isn’t that what He always gives? Is anything really mundane when God is so magnificent?
I am a tree. Naked and exposed, thrown on my back, branches in the air, roots all woven together, laying in a valley of tears. Some roots are cut through with pain-the memories of past, sin, and suffering. Others are a bit broken with the trials of life-those roots that seemingly made me drown…those roots I wanted away with. But there are also those roots that run deep with the remembrances of faithfulness. They are the ones that gave me hope. And today? - I hope this extraordinary ordinary day runs deep with remembrance. That it’s a root well grounded. And when I finally give way to falling over in this world we call home, my roots all revealed-I hope that the beauty and the ugly all running together testify of God’s faithfulness. Because He IS always faithful. He’s there in the broken and the beautiful. He makes the broken beautiful.
He and I, we go to bed at the end of this kind of boring beautiful day, fingers laced together, like the lacing of our hearts. We lift our prayers to God, and when I finish my “Amen,” he is already breathing deeply, at peace with the broken beautiful day.
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