Today, I found tortilla chips in my son’s back pockets before throwing his pants in the washer.
I told my boys to stop knife fighting at the bus stop. (Not real knives.)
I haven’t showered much this week.I held my baby and let her sleep on my chest because she has the flu.Four out of six people have had the flu at our house in the last four days.I logged some serious time in the hammock. These are the holy moments of motherhood, slipped in among the ordinary breaths of an ordinary life.
I bent low over the washer, crumbling the chips between my fingers, caught up in the hard and beautiful work of mothering my babes, and it’s a posture of worship, this bending at the knees. Of gratitude to a Father who would make me for them.
I’m scrambling for the words to tell you how it feels to know I carry the weight of their souls, how terrified and joyful I become when I absorb the whole of being their mother. How it feels when the monotony of routine becomes extraordinary.
And so I will sing you my story, my song. A melody of dirty dish and laundry piles. Sweet notes of garden manure and chicken coops, of fragile plants and hope. A cacophony of wrestling matches, sibling spats and the squawk of a sick baby girl.
In the middle, we dance. We dance to Bruno Mars and songs about tacos, pajamas, and eggs. We dance to songs about the potty. Sometimes we dance because we need to go to the potty. Sometimes we break dance.
I’ve said before and I’ll sing it here, this motherhood journey is heart-aching hard, non-linear, and sanctifying.
I hum five-year old hugs and chubby toddler arms tight around my neck. I whisper to my nine year old of friendship, and of forgiveness. I sing softly to my girls when tears flow and yes, I sing, too, my sorrow, a song of anxiety, and of fear and of surrender. We are writing new music here after a decade of war.
I sing for others … a cry for peace, for pain-free, for His presence.
I’m a one woman variety show.
And my song? It’s broken notes and broken hearts sometimes, and never pitch perfect and often it’s failure, but it’s always grace.
I haven’t written much here. Since November 28, which makes me wince. I miss it. But I’ve been listening more these days even while I sing. Listening to the sound of my daughter whistling, listening to Second Son and dinosaur stories. Listening to the babble of a feisty one year old and the exhausted cries of my kindergartener. Listening to my counselor.
Making room for listening creates quiet on the blog. Which makes me a little sad. But I needed the room.
Listening makes room for worship. And I really needed to worship.
I’ll be around more soon, I promise.