Time out.

What if
this list of things that is never done,
this house that's never clean enough,
this body that's never fit enough,
What if this too, is grace?

What if the grace is in with and under the failing?
What if "success" would be to my harm?

What if God knows I would find rest in my well-ordered house,
that I'd be satisfied with fake rest,
shallow rest,
and so for my good,
He sent me dust, and sticky toilet seats,
and boys who fight,
and vanishing library books?

"Come to me," He says, "and I will give you rest."

But there is no time to come, I grumble;
there is only trying to get caught up,
trying to earn the rest,
and the finish line keeps moving,
and the invitation feels like an insult.

But the rest that God gives is a rest I do not control,
or earn,
or deserve.

It is a rest given,
Given right here in the thick of it,
on His terms, not mine.

He refuses to calm the chaos,
but instead, He gives me Jesus,
right here.  Jesus.

Perfectionism shouts orders;
my "reputation" worries;
my check-list screams for attention;
and God duct-tapes their stupid faces and sends them away

and He says,
"take and eat,
rest and trust,
be still and know,
I am God."

Father,
Here in the world of undone chores I am so easily undone. I need you, the rest you give me in Jesus.  Teach me to plan for soul-rest, and to fight for it. And when I am too weak or too distracted to fight, then please God, fight for me, even if you must fight with me. Drag me to those green pastures and still waters, and restore my soul as only you can. Amen.