Keeping the Sabbath

So, I’ve been doing some thinking and praying about what it really means for a mother to keep the Sabbath.  As a stay-at-home mother to three beautiful, energetic, and often needy children, I struggle over how exactly it is that I can cease my work for a day each week.  On Sundays, I groggily roll out of bed a full hour or so earlier than usual, drag myself to the shower thinking about the coming hour during which I will try to keep the three of them in the pew, quiet, not dropping something loudly which will roll down the sloped floor to the front of the sanctuary, not scream in frustration with the brother or sister who is bugging them, not expose myself while trying to nurse the youngest (Seriously, who can get out of the sanctuary to nurse privately when you’re solo with three young children?), not draw on the hymnal, not throw the cheerios on the floor and then step on them, not draw Pokemon characters when I’d rather have him focusing on the worship service…and on, and on, and on. 

 

After contemplating (read: dreading) all of this, I have to wake them up.  My children are not morning people.  I hear my friends saying that their children wake up happily at 6am ready for the day.  That does not happen in our house (thankfully, since I am not a morning person, either).  I have tried to think of gentle ways of waking them on Sundays, trying to make the day’s happenings more appealing so they’ll want to get out of bed and get dressed.  I have finally resorted to bribery with frozen waffles (only available on Sunday mornings here) and TV while they get dressed. 

 

Needless to say, all of these happenings before 7:45am do not in any way seem to me as though I am ceasing my work.  Actually, it seems an increase of it the vast majority of the time.  In the last year, I also began fasting on Sunday mornings until after the Eucharist, a discipline I have grown to love, but which can also make me more crabby than usual.  But this one thing, this one small thing of purposely not eating or drinking anything until I’ve partaken of THE feast has made my Sunday stand a bit more apart from the rest of my week.  It has helped me to focus on just why it is that I put myself and my children through this nutty Sunday morning ritual.  It’s because I am hungry.  I am hungry for communion with God and the communion of saints.  I am hungry for peace and deep, meaningful worship.  I am hungry for connection with my husband and children.  I am hungry for a slower, simpler life.

 

I am so not there yet.  I have so far to go in this journey. I have a lot to learn about preparing for the Sabbath so that I can actually rest, as God intends as a gracious gift and way of life.  But I figure, if I can continue to change just one little thing at a time, praying for grace and help from God all along the way, I will at least be on the way (The Way?) toward living as God commands us, a people who know that God is God and we are not.  My dirty kitchen will have to wait; it’s a day of rest to the LORD.

Slowing Down Time

Well, we did it. We celebrated our baby's first birthday. We made it through the early days of getting to know this new little stranger in the house. We made it through the bleary-eyed days following the long sleepless nights. We made it through 6 months of me living dairy-free, and without ice cream, Mama is not a happy camper. We made it through one week of hell when we feared for her life while she battled a dangerous strain of influenza in the intensive care unit. We made it through the myriad worries of a mother concerned over every bite of new foods she ate, every new milestone reached on time or late, every new tooth, and every encounter with her older siblings who think she's more of a toy than a complete human being.

I never knew, before having children, that making it through each and every day was a victory, that just marking the passing of time was an accomplishment. A member of our congregation recently celebrated his 100th birthday, and Matt and I were talking about what you say to someone who has reached that elusive milestone birthday. "Congratulations for still being here!" "You're still breathing! Hooray!" But seriously, those are the things I want to say to our dear daughter. We made it, baby girl! Hooray!

And aren't we all thankful for that? That we are each still breathing, still here, still alive and kicking... I am so grateful for every day that I have another chance to do things right, even though on every other day I've messed something up. Another day to pray for faithfulness and for good work. Another year to grow and serve. Another decade to become more of what God has intended for us: to be in relationship with Jesus and with one another.

So, thank God that we are all still here, still breathing, and alive in Christ. Now, if only he could slow down time a little...

Mop & Bucket

Today, as I looked down at the kitchen floor after cleaning up after lunch, the coffee drips, stuck-on bits of banana, and huge dust bunnies between the refrigerator and the cabinet could no longer be ignored. So I implored my husband to roll out the refrigerator, revealing the months (maybe years) of dust, magnets, pencils, combs, marbles and sundry other things that have rolled underneath out of our sight. Even my son who will pick up toads and worms in the yard would not stoop to retrieve the trinkets buried in the dust. So, I did what every mom would do…I swept it all up and threw it in the garbage. Then, I filled the mop bucket and cleaned it up, rolled back the fridge and cleaned the rest of the floor.

As I was mopping, the Spirit moved me to pray the Jesus prayer with each mop stroke.

Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.

The floor suddenly took on new life. A thirty-some-odd-year-old workhorse with spills, dried-on food, and ground-in dirt upon it. Ground-in dirt that no amount of scrubbing with mops, on hands and knees, and even the mighty Mr. Clean Magic Eraser could obliterate. The marks of years of dirty shoes treading on it are there forever, a testament to the many pastors’ families this parsonage has housed over its history. A floor that was now beginning to shine (a bit) with the sweeping of the mop over it’s surface (with the occasional need to scrape up some bit of something with a fingernail). A peaceful, good-smelling clean entered the kitchen and my soul.

Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.

My soul, a thirty-some-odd-year-old, tender, self-conscious, but beautiful-in-God’s-sight, workhorse that doesn’t work as much as it should. The years of selfishness, of allowing others to sin against me, of all kinds of idolatry and laziness have left their mark there, too. Ground-in dirt that no amount of contrition will erase. No parenting book, no home-organizing manual, no New Year’s resolution can repair.

The only mop and bucket that can get that mess cleaned up is found in the holy waters of baptism, in which that old, dirty, tread-upon being is made sparkling clean. Jesus Christ himself claimed me, cleaned me up, and put on a new coat of wax—the garment of the baptized. He has fed me with himself, and promised to be with me even when the coffee spills, the baby throws down the bananas, and the dirt is ground in ever deeper. The marks of sin remain there, scars that serve as reminders of unfaithfulness and spur me on to be ever more faithful, to rely ever more on Christ rather than on my own unsteady and unworthy self. To return again and again in thankfulness for that mop and bucket that cleaned up the grime. To pray without ceasing, even while mopping up the messes of others.

Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.