The Beauty of Thanks
The day started like most days. Rush, do, go, repeat, pray. Remind self that you are too busy to not pray first. I’d been trying to slow down, trying to heed her words. I’m determined to live fully right where I am just as Ann encourages. Though I have not yet purchased her book I fully intend to very soon. Just as soon as I slow down. Seriously, I will be getting this book and I am determining to be thankful in every single thing.
Only it isn’t looking quite like the picture her lovely words paint. Oh, I’m not so naive to think that this comes easily. I just didn’t anticipate the all out war that would ensue my mind.
Last Friday after a short devotional {perhaps the length or lack thereof is where it all went wrong} I considered how the disciples fished all night and by morning had nothing to show for it. Then comes Jesus telling them to cast their net on the right side of the boat {John 21:6}. They did and were not able to draw the net back in for the multitude of fish they caught. All of their efforts had been unfruitful. Yet after obeying the command of Jesus in one moment they were able to do what their collective efforts could not do for an entire night.
So I determined to relax, move a little more slowly, appreciate the quiet of the morning while the baby I Nannysit was sleeping. I crawled back in bed and curled up under the covers with the remote in hand. I sat relaxed for a few moments, flipping between two channels with the volume turned fairly low. No rushing off to mop those floors or obsessing over the fact that there is a new puppy in the house. A new puppy that is puppy training. Every thought of what I felt needed to be done in the house was banished.
Then Sophie walked in the room with a huge smile on her face and said, “Mom, guess What? {Doesn’t wait for my guess.} I have a pretend hair salon in my room just like the hair salon I go to and I let my customer’s hair fall on the ground just like they do at my hair salon. And do you know who my customers are? {Doesn’t wait for my answer?} My Lauren doll {Dance with Me Ballet Doll with yarn hair} and my little poodle. {Still doesn’t come up for air in spite of the stunned look on my face and my lips trying to form a word.} And WAIT! There’s poop on my floor!”
It took me a minute to speak. The poop through me off. “Sophie! You cut your dolls’ hair?”
“Yes,” she said grinning.
I went to her room to survey the damage all the while thinking of how she was clearly quite pleased with herself and how I was trying so desperately not to rush into the many things of the day that need to be done. Always, something needs to be done. There it was. Yellow yarn, doll hair. And pink poodle hair. And puppy poop from the night before that sadly, no one noticed, all covered in yellow yarn doll hair and pink poodle hair. I took care of the poop but chose to leave the doll hair for a while as I tried to reason with a four-year-old.
I asked her what the rule was for using her scissors or any of her art supplies or anything in the bottom of her armoire. “Ask first,” she replied matter-of-factly.
“That’s right. Your scissors are for your art projects and for cutting paper that you are allowed to cut. Doll hair doesn’t grow back, Sophie. Don’t ever cut your dolls’ hair,” I continued.
“Yea, only real people, riggghhht?”
“NO! Not real people’s hair either.” This wasn’t going so well.
I tried to breathe slowly and not let the mess send me into a frenzied rush cleaning. I really did. I tried not to question how in the world I was supposed to stay in a mindset of not rushing and doing and going. I wanted to be thankful. I think I even faked it a little. Oh don’t misunderstand. I will determine to eventually be thankful in all things. It’s His command. “In every thing give thanks” {1 Thessalonians 5:18a) isn’t a suggestion. But there was no stopping me. The idea of puppy poop being in any part of my house translated into a dire need to clean all of the floors let alone the rest of the house. Thus began my frenzied rush.
All the while I cleaned I tried to find reason for thanks. And I did. Or maybe I faked some of it. I wondered if Ann ever looked the mess I did while trying to take care of baby Oliver, Braylon, Gavin and Sophie. I wondered if she ever struggled with thanks. Even just a little. I thanked Him for being able to be home while working. I thanked Him that Gavin was coming a little later even though that made me feel bad because he’s my grandson. I thanked Him when Oliver slept peacefully. But mostly I rushed and cleaned and questioned what good it did for me to take that moment’s pause to sit back and relax when really, had I started cleaning I would’ve been further along by now. And then the next interruption, the next Sophie drama, slowed me down.
She stood over the couch with one of the Christian parable children’s books that I bought when Cammie was little. With a blue highlighter from a set Aunt Ginger gave her, she highlighted the words of the book. “SOPHIE! Why are your writing in that book,” I demanded.
She looked shocked at my response and paused for a moment before answering, “I don’t know.”
I reminded her that she’s supposed to ask before getting anything out of the armoire including her colored highlighters, that she isn’t supposed to write while on the couch or her bed but instead at her little table or the kitchen table and that she isn’t supposed to write in books.
“I was reading to Braylon,” she said defensively.
Well. Of course. That makes sense. Hmmph! I took the book and marched off frustrated. I let my fury feed my frenzied rush to clean. Brilliant. Nothing like hard work done with an attitude and a scowl. All the while I wondered why oh why was this happening on my lovely Friday and how in the world was I ever going to have the right attitude of thankfulness. I repented much but I was still mad.
More frenzied work. Clean, make lunch, clean, get ready for glorious nap time. I contemplated writing a book—Eat, Poop, Cry. Don’t even think about stealing my idea either because it came by way of much grief and stress and I will hunt you down.
At morning snack, Sophie cut her banana into a zillion pieces. This, after I broke Braylon’s banana in a few pieces and then asked Sophie if she wanted me to slice hers. Nope. She was good. She’d take it whole. Why in the name of all things holy, then, did I find her after I left the room for just a few minutes, with a fork and knife in hands and a banana that had been fruitful and multiplied all over the table?
During lunch, Sophie asked for ketchup for her potato chips. Whatever. She didn’t need it for nuggets because she had sweet ‘n sour sauce but fine. Ketchup for her chips. She asked for more as she always does even though she has plenty left. It’s like she’s worried about a ketchup shortage in the world or something. I told her I’d get it in a minute as I cleaned in my bedroom. I don’t know if she was trying to get me back for giving her chips instead of fries or what but one half of her divided plate was floating in ketchup. And she was through eating. Done. Out of the kitchen. Again, I tried reasoning with her. Again, she looked so innocently at me as if she couldn’t quite figure out what was wrong with me.
By now I knew this was a test and I was failing miserably. I did NOT want to see this mountain for fourty years yet I continued to struggle. At the point of no return in my house cleaning, I pressed on with the joy of nap time coming. On I marched cleaning everything in site except for the doll hair that I insisted Sophie clean herself. I thanked God for nap time only to have Cammie show up late with Gavin because they both fell asleep and slept a long time and now she was running late. And Gavin was wide awake. Heavy teeth-clenching sigh.
Gavin had been sick and was clingy. Braylon had fever and left early. By now I was weary and exhausted yet stubbornly determined to finish what I had started. I slowed long enough to hold Gavin and console him. When I put him down, he cried. I cried, too. I finally got him to sleep after several meltdowns and lots of crying on his part, too. At the home stretch, the end in site, I mopped while the kids slept. And then Trey showed up with medicine for Gavin. And woke up Gavin.
This was it. I was at the end of myself. And house cleaning. How convenient. No more cleaning to delay a full on breakdown. I didn’t break down, though. Instead, I thanked God that Trey was holding Gavin for the moment. I thanked Him in advance for the hot water for my shower and hoped against hope that I had not washed one too many loads of laundry. Trey left. Gavin cried. I held him, got him to sleep and went to take a shower. I was done. Not just cleaning. Done with feeling this way. Done with the frustrations of life. Done.
I tried to let it all wash away with my shower. From done to undone I repented for my attitude. But I still wondered if this is what Ann looked like before she penned words so beautifully. As soon as I turned the water off I heard Gavin crying. I called out to Sophie to wake up and sit with Gavin while I put on new pajamas. But the nap protesting kid refused to wake from nap. Of course.
I was going to have to make a decision. The absurdity of my situation was not lost on me—changing out of my pajamas and showering after a long day of toil and stress and mess after mess only to put on another set of pajamas to end my day. Battle weary, I surrendered. I knew all along that there was no other answer but to slow down and to find thanks. To really slow down long enough to laugh NOW at the moment. It’s always funny later but what if I would just stop long enough to forget about the mess and enjoy the here and now? What if I slowed my answer, slowed my words, slowed my next decision when faced with circumstances and situations that feed my stress?
What if I had paused long enough to listen with that first interruption of the day? Perhaps the message I’d read only moments prior would not have been lost. A day of toil and fret produces little more than clean floors that will quickly become dirty. Very quickly. It produces lessons unlearned or worse still, attitudes of unthankfulness taught to a four-year-old. It produces exhaustion and fatigue. Perhaps if I had listened for His voice my efforts would’ve proved fruitful.
Stop, breathe, inhale, exhale, thank.
It really is beautiful. The picture of thankfulness. It isn’t the absence of life’s stresses or messes. It’s the beauty of His grace in the midst of it.
Thank you, Lord! Thank you!
for little eyes squinted shut while faking sleep and little feet stuffed inside my neck pillow while fighting sleep
for strong hands that work hard all day then massage my achy back because I’ve worked hard all day
for cereal for supper
Thank you, Lord, for grace to say no and grace to stop doing. Thank you, Lord, for grace to be still.
Thank you.
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