In-the-moment often doesn’t reveal the importance of-the-moment.
In-the-moment seldom gazes directly in our eyes or points out the progress or reassures us this is our next best thing.
In-the-moment rarely offers significance a seat. It’s after-the-moment who often motions backward where on the distance shore significance waves shyly and our souls gasp with the wonder of what was and how all those in-the-moments are woven together into a beautiful artwork of glory divine.
Crabby.
I was feeling it.
It painted my tones in Sharpie point as I muttered under my breath and faced off with the millionth and ten mess spread across our kitchen.
My snappy self gave sharp declaration to how tired I was of cleaning up messes.
Dirt and crumbs and dishes and clutter and disarray all garishly set on repeat. Stuck on repeat. Cemented on repeat.
I gave the dishrag a vicious shake; threw the empty milk jug into the trash with annoyance. Cracker crumbs crunched beneath my sandaled feet and something unrecognizable stained the counter.
Life feels like a constant refrain of fighting back against the moldering mundane. Attempting to create order from chaos. Shape it. Subdue it.
It’s Whack-a-mole. One mess contained, another restrained, but while our backs were turned, three more have tentacled everywhere.
And I complain at the quotidian monotony of it.
For I’ve forgotten that there’s meaning in the mundane. Purpose in practiced motions.
Ordinary life is gift and sticky counters recount cycles and rhythms and routines.
Delight dances in every day if I’m willing to focus beyond the teetering dishes, look for the layer of grace, give way to sweeping gratitude.
All of life is practice. Much of life is mundane.
I can bemoan the bother or I can bother to behold the beauty.
I can choose to center, to savor, to lift up sacrifice among the soap bubbles in a stainless kitchen sink.
She sits cross-legged in the sunlight, face upturned, soaking in the sacred act of being.
Our God smiles.
He holds the door; lets it bang into place behind them. Through the mesh the clock chimes half past. She balances coffee mugs; he carries the carafe, holds plated blueberry muffins in his left hand. Willow careens with crazy delight at the sheer excitement of their presence.
Our God smiles.
He makes his rounds. Coffee waits in the Yeti tumbler at his desk. He smiles, murmurs soft good mornings, says needed words, spreads some cheer.
Our God smiles.
She fills the bowls to the brim as kittens brush against her ankles. Pulls up a chair and watches as they lap milk and crunch on kibble. Ginger jumps in her lap for an evening snuggle. The sun is beginning its evening brush across canvas.
Our God smiles.
She called in this morning. Not exactly sick. Not exactly well. But she noticed what her compromised immune system needed and called it. There’s a teakettle bubbling and a bath with bubbles bubbling and a new book beckoning.
Our God smiles.
Today you open your eyes and a new week rushes in. You live and move and have your being. A lot of ordinary actions. Feeding people, cycling laundry, your 8-5 and maybe your 5-9. Ins and outs. Ups and downs. In all that you navigate this week, in all that’s accomplished and all that goes undone, know this.
You are the purpose and Our God smiles.
