the grip of things undone

 The undone things around this place are killing me.

Literally, suffocating me, like a vice grip around my throat.

It feels like there is not enough time to do all the things,

not enough time to do them a hastily,

and certainly not enough time to do them all well.

And a friend says to me:

“There is always time to do the will of God.”

And that sentence seems trite, and mean, and obnoxiously true, and it doesn’t match my feelings one bit. 

God doesn’t want me to do more things than I have time for, right? My mind believes this but my feelings absolutely do not.  Why is this? What pressures are on me and where are they coming from?  And how do I set them down? 

What if “God’s will for this day” actually FITS into this day? What if it includes doing some but not all of the possible things, and what if that is OK? 

If that’s true, then maybe it’s ok to just steadily work through the day one thing at a time; to set aside frenzy and panic, and to chip away as the day allows

and then take the pile of undone things at the end of the day and commend them to him… like some kind of lenten offering?

It seems so backwards to “offer” such things;

not my shiny finished things but the things that have fallen off the list,
the things that nag me, the things I would do if I were actually a machine and never ever needed food or rest; the way life would be if I had no limitations, if I was more than human.

What could that look like?

Lord this is me giving up getting it all done, here’s my pile of NOT works, anti-works, unworks. 

In giving these to you I am laying down my ‘need’ to be perfect and in control of all the things. In laying this pile at your feet I am confessing the truth that I am small; I am not the glue that holds the world together;  life is messy and I'm not in control of that either. I confess that there are things I could still be working on, there are tasks undone, and I confess that I am not even sure I have chosen my priorities rightly in the endless choices of triage. 

If I am to rest, to be OK in my own soul and skin here in this place of endless demands, I must learn to accept both work and rest as a gift from your hand, refusing to believe that I am constantly getting graded on an impossible checklist. Teach me how to let go, and how to hold on to You. Help me keep showing up because I know that showing up faithfully matters more than any of it, and when I am weary of even showing up give me your strength to borrow.  Show up faithfully for me, Lord, and for my family today, right here with all the loose ends flying around.  Amen.

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The vice-grip around my throat is not the hand of God.

May His kind hand and his gracious presence be seen and known in our homes today.

relentless showing up

 A parsonage with high ceilings and polished wood in a tiny Wisconsin town, a home run by a mother who loves that small town, her church, the snow, and her husband.  She is skilled in making a house a home and her careful touches shine from every corner. Our guest room had a basket with clean towels, water bottles, and snacks; it was more warm and personal than any hotel room could have been.

And her children are everywhere! 

A tiny superman robe, booster seats for the car, job lists and burp rags and legos and early bedtimes… I inhabited this world for so many years, but we no longer live here. I joke with my son about his old superhero PJs and how I used to have to reattach his cape like it was my full time job. I pat his broad shoulders and look up at him; it’s even hard for me to believe this man-child once had a tiny boy body.

Those little kid days were so wonderful and sweet and relentless and utterly flattening. I watch my friend serve and love in her circle and then widen it out to include us, so gracefully; I want to tell her I think she’s a superhero but I'm not sure how to say it.

So I tell her yes,  I slept great and thanks so much for the coffee and sausage. And I lean my head on my big-girl's shoulder for a minute, before we say goodbye, and I know my other kids are wondering if I’m going to cry “like nana always does.”

She’s apologetic because she has to leave to run a child to a thing. Of course we would love to stay and chat for days, but her relentless job is calling and so is mine. 

Relentless: that’s what I remember about the younger years. Delightful moments, squeaky voices, and constant, relentless needs. And I remember how hard it was to keep showing up, to every day put hands and heart and back and voice into a job that was never done, that was never completed perfectly, walking on crunchy floors, trying to hard to see and catch little bits of beauty but just feeling so, so tired and so, so needed.

She just keeps showing up, and it’s not perfect, and she has to pray for strength and help so often that she wonders if she is nagging God or doing the right thing in learning how to lean on Him in prayer every five minutes.

And that’s family:  showing up, with the kids and the questions. Making a home.  And sometimes, down to your very body, BEING a home.

For a little while.

Until the seasons change, and showing up starts to look more like letting go; like handing over the keys, hugging goodbye, saying less and praying more.   And I have to pray for strength and help so often that I wonder if I am nagging God or doing the right thing in learning how to lean on Him in prayer every five minutes.

The growing pain-joys are relentless, and my eyes stream with grief-gratitude as I drive home.  

Father, keep showing up for us as the seasons change. May your presence and your grace be as relentless as our need for it. Amen.