Alarm sounds. 5 a.m. Snooze. 6 a.m. Pray for the mechanic. Get up. Too late; no gym today. Where is my notebook? Where is my notebook? Where is my notebook? Find notebook. Study the Bible. Read Matthew Henry’s take. Thank God for the man who gave Matthew Henry to me. Pray for him. Write. Type. Start coffee. Give massage. Offer breakfast. Kiss the mechanic goodbye. Shower. Do any of these clothes even fit me?
Addie draws my picture as I hurriedly dry my too long tresses.
Everyone needs a haircut. Everyone needs a dental appointment. Two need doctor visits. The insurance adjuster is coming to an empty driveway tomorrow if I do not call him. The car I injured rushing to and fro is going on a fieldtrip to the History Museum. Should I pack lunches? Mom needs the house key. Is there any possible way to get a run in today?
“Look at me, Mom, I’m drawing you!”
I need to pray. Maybe I should just fast. Do I look like I have time to eat anyway? Fasting it is. The dog pees at my feet. There’s a food fight in the kitchen. No one is dressed for school.
“Mom, look! I’m trying to see what you look like!”
Did I answer that email? The phone is ringing. Said dog chewed through the “cordless” phone cord. Ironic. Get the phone on the fax machine, Mia! Is that going to make my house burn down? Answer three texts.
“Here’s your picture, Mommy.”
Crumpled, Addie’s rendition is a more beautiful me; the one she sees. Give thanks. Get dressed, brush your hair, and brush your teeth, girls! Eat breakfast. What happened to fasting? Shoot! How does a person forget that? Tomorrow. Teach math. Run two miles. Pray. Thank God for the husband who loves, the children who interrupt, the legs that are able, the new friends he gave, the needs the friends have, the pastor with tremendous grace, the cold on my face, the trees that surround, the rest of the day’s adventure. Yell in upon return, “Are yinz done with math?”
Smallest girl’s paper is blank. Help her. Go over math. Recite books of the Bible. Read the Bible. Read History. Read Aesop’s fables. Read a martyr. Read a poem. Offer language lesson. Make lunch. Answer language questions. Give phonics. Give spelling words.
“Everyone read a chapter of your fiction books while I’m gone.”
Deposit money. Take lunch to the mechanic. Pay bills. Deposit more money. Grab milk, bread, and art supplies. Do not forget to stop for wine. Get wine. Deliver art supplies. Vacuum. What’s for dinner? We’ll be at Girl Scouts. Fill crock pot. View calendar. Girl Scouts is cancelled. Gather miscellaneous toys.
“Put your toys away, girls.”
“Do you guys want to swim?”
Gather swimming gear. Go swimming. Everyone is hungry. Offer snacks. Read storybooks. Call insurance man. Finish dinner. Look over the book I’m reviewing. Pray for grace. Play blocks. Discover a sonogram picture stuffed in among my volunteer papers.
“Who got this out, girls? Please put it back.”
Consider said sonogram picture.
Life. Life moves. My life is a book. There is such great adventure here. Mystery, tragedy, comedy, and action all dancing together gracefully, clumsily, angrily, wearily, lovingly, happily. Too many ily’s to mention. The interludes are grace. The interruptions are the voices of little lives needing. They charge in upon the frenzy of my madness and they bring me back to life. So the ones to whom God gave life through me are the ones who give it back abundantly.
Stop. Remember how good God is.
Give thanks. Give thanks. Give thanks. Give thanks. Give thanks. Give thanks. Give thanks. Give thanks. Give thanks. Give thanks.
As if an even ten could truly touch the deficit I’ve so drastically incurred.
Confess. Confess. Confess. Repent. Give thanks. Repeat.