The Lesson I Keep Re-Learning
I’ve been learning something lately.
Well, that’s not entirely true; re-learning is probably more accurate. I keep skimming through the theory, confident in my own understanding, and then drastically failing the practical element.
Perhaps you know my struggle.
At the end of every day, I drag my weary self to bed. It is an hour later than I had planned (okay, fine, two hours later), and yet I’m not really sure where that extra time went. I know where I had wanted it to go: yoga, writing, crochet. Maybe calling a friend.
But it didn’t. It just went.
Of course, I do know where it went, roughly.
It went on making dinner, clearing up dinner, herding the kids through the process of getting ready for bed, answering burning philosophical questions and repeating myself fourteen thousand times before eventually getting up to go do it myself.
It went on re-packing the dishwasher to squeeze in a few more plates, scrubbing a whole load’s worth of toddler clothes with caked-on food, transferring dates between the school newsletter and my calendar, and looping back and forth between the bedrooms until everyone finally got to sleep.
So with my feet throbbing and my body aching, I close the eyes that sting
from sheer exhaustion and try to figure out where the problem is and how I can
make it go away.
Maybe I have too much clutter, because we all know clutter
causes more work. But I feel like I am continuously clearing things out and
giving or throwing things away!
Maybe I need to streamline my routines, and break my jobs into more manageable
chunks so that I can systematically knock my tasks off my to-do list. But I
feel like any more structure would make my home resemble a military bunker.
Besides, you need a certain degree of flexibility when you are throwing four
children into the mix.
Maybe I need to get a mentor, practice gratitude, meditate. The internet keeps
reminding me that mindset is everything. This approach may actually work, if I
could only locate my mind and all its contents. (If you see it anywhere, please
let me know. I miss it and I’d like it to come back home).
Maybe I have a pride issue, and I need to ask for and accept more help. This
one is definitely applicable, but after more than two years of benching my pride
and accepting every ounce of help I could get, I really do feel ready to just
have my home and my kids to myself.
It feels as though every possible helpful tip I come across just doesn’t apply,
or I’m already sick of trying it when it doesn’t seem to make a difference. So
I lie there, thoroughly defeated and frustrated at how stuck I feel running the
hamster wheel of washing and cooking and organising carpooling and filling out
fundraising forms. I’m sick of being in charge. I latch onto those words as
they swirl around my brain. I am mentally shouting it now: I’M SICK OF
BEING IN CHARGE!
A thought rises up inside me.
You’re not in charge here.
It mustn’t be my own voice, because I can hear mine retorting, Yes I am! I do everything! I make all the decisions and then carry out every action. That is exactly what it looks like to be in charge!
I sound petulant, and I imagine myself standing there with folded arms and bottom lip protruding, like a six-year-old whose tooth fairy forgot to come.
But the thought returns:
You’re not in charge here.
His voice becomes clearer as he repeats these words. He is not mocking or controlling. He is steady and calm, his voice level.
You’re not in charge here.
I feel a sense of recognition as God’s presence rises up in my mind, firm and huge like white cliffs towering over a stormy sea.
And I hear my voice in the waves, beating violently and relentlessly up against Him, as though my insistence will erode his resolve. I am in charge. I can fix this. If I could only figure out what to DO, I would fix this!
You’re not in charge here.
I can feel my temper slipping away, and without its fiery warmth I am small and weak, and perhaps a little embarrassed. This is not how I thought this would go. I try to find some words.
I am…frustrated…because…I don’t seem to be going anywhere. Nothing I do seems to make a difference. Every day is one big long circle where I work and push and try my hardest and end up back where I began.
And I don’t like it. I’m SICK of going round in circles.
I want to change it, but none of the ideas I try seems to work either.
So… what now?
Almost as soon as I have asked, three images flash into my mind.
The first is the circle I have described, but it is not made of a line or even a path. It is a carving, being gently and meticulously pressed into beautiful, rich-coloured wood. Deft hands juggle a delicate scraping tool and this block of fine wood, holding one still and turning the other in circles. The admission is clear: Yes, you are going around in circles. But you’re not running or walking, you’re carving. You are gently impressing a pattern into these tiny souls. If you rush, you will ruin your own work and mine. There is no other way than to gently continue.
The second image that flashes up is a huge diamond, roughly hewn into its shape, heavily smudged and still irregular. Calloused hands nestle the diamond in a finely woven cloth, but everything is covered in soot. It’s everywhere; on both sides of the cloth, under the fingernails, creased into the skin. The hands gently turn the diamond in the cloth, and the cloth begins to darken further as the diamond begins to shine. The image is gone, flickering away as quickly as it came. I have seen what I needed to see. If you are making something beautiful, you have to be willing to get your hands dirty. I will wash you clean over and over again, but you need to accept the repetition, the dirt, the tedium, the callouses. As you reshape the diamond, the diamond will reshape you.
The third image is brief, and seems to change form at the last minute. At first it is a silver lamp like the famed lamp of Aladdin, being polished back by unseen hands. Suddenly it shrinks into a simple antique-looking sugar pot with a tiny little lid. Why didn’t it stay as a lamp? I hear myself wonder.
Because it was never designed to grant your wishes.
I sigh. I know, I know.
I should have seen that one coming.
A sugar pot is much more apt. Your main task in caring for it is still to polish it and help it shine, but every now and then you get to lift the lid a little and taste some of the sweetness inside.
I smile. I can’t help myself. He is right.
I slowly sigh again, but with relief this time.
I’m not in charge. I just have to keep going, moving forward bit by bit, and leave the rest up to Him.
It will take patience, but not everything on this path is held until the end. I already have access to the abundant sweetness in my little collection of sugar pots. They are His but they are also mine, given to be enjoyed and shared.
