Pain and Beauty
We had an ugly morning here Friday. It started beautifully - I got up before the kids, and actually took the time to make a proper coffee, instead of instant. I read my devotional, I prayed, I gave this day to the Father, and it was good.
Until my firstborn woke up, and I had to repeatedly remind her that it was confusing to the puppy that she would sit down, let Daisy climb on her lap, and then thirty seconds later stand up and dump her on the floor.
Chip.
Then my youngest woke up, and started bellowing at me about something (I cannot even remember what it was), and began his daily assault to my sanity. His chosen weapons are defiance and name-calling.
Shave.
Then the second-oldest woke up and wanted porridge, which is fine, but all the microwaveable bowls were in the dishwasher, which needed to be emptied. She didn't want to wait, and proceeded to tell me just what she thought of this.
Hammer.
Then my second-youngest (if this sounds like a lot of children to you, I can assure you it is, but we like it that way) woke up and began her admirable efforts to ignore my every instruction regarding our new puppy.
Grind.
You see, the hardest part of having a husband who works away is not that I am here with four children, and a puppy. The most challenging thing is the feeling of loneliness. Of being the only adult, with no backup. Of being the only person available to make every decision, to solve every (real or imagined) problem. It is why I am so adamant that we all do the same thing at the same time. If we are all eating breakfast, then mentally it is only one discussion about breakfast, as opposed to five discussions at different points in the process.
I tend to fall apart when I am required to jump from breakfast, to brush hair, make bed, pack a lunch, breakfast, get dressed, make bed, Mum can I ride my bike, I want porridge for breakfast, can so-and-so come over after school, I hate cornflakes, brush hair, it's my library day, I'm finished can I watch television, I want the hooded jumper, I hate school, where are your socks and shoes, no you can't wear pink sparkly socks to school, you are not sick, you just hate mornings... and so on. On Friday in particular I became fixated on finding a lost shoe, and stopped attending to the things which actually needed attention. It would have been far better to forget the shoe until after the children were in bed, but ... hindsight, right?
It is this kind of scattered approach to our mornings which utterly depletes my mental energy, usually before we have left the house, and it was just that kind of morning on Friday. It ended with me in tears, wondering if I would ever NOT feel like a failure and simultaneously wanting to quit/keep showing up.
After a teary conversation with my mother-in-love in which she told me I am actually doing admirably in these circumstances and I an not a disappointment, I slowly began to believe what I knew to be true until the lies grew quieter and I could dismiss them altogether - still there, but no longer demanding to be acknowledged.
The process of being shaped and sculpted was so painful, it felt as though I would break. If I had not given myself over to it, I would have stopped short of that morning's big reveal, and missed the knowledge gained. I would have missed that the God I surrendered my morning to before it all went haywire is the exact same God who knew the end of that morning. He knew I would find the shoe, and that it would all be okay.
You see, the story does not end with failure and despair. It ends with beauty, if we can just endure the process.
Sarah
Until my firstborn woke up, and I had to repeatedly remind her that it was confusing to the puppy that she would sit down, let Daisy climb on her lap, and then thirty seconds later stand up and dump her on the floor.
Chip.
Then my youngest woke up, and started bellowing at me about something (I cannot even remember what it was), and began his daily assault to my sanity. His chosen weapons are defiance and name-calling.
Shave.
Then the second-oldest woke up and wanted porridge, which is fine, but all the microwaveable bowls were in the dishwasher, which needed to be emptied. She didn't want to wait, and proceeded to tell me just what she thought of this.
Hammer.
Then my second-youngest (if this sounds like a lot of children to you, I can assure you it is, but we like it that way) woke up and began her admirable efforts to ignore my every instruction regarding our new puppy.
Grind.
You see, the hardest part of having a husband who works away is not that I am here with four children, and a puppy. The most challenging thing is the feeling of loneliness. Of being the only adult, with no backup. Of being the only person available to make every decision, to solve every (real or imagined) problem. It is why I am so adamant that we all do the same thing at the same time. If we are all eating breakfast, then mentally it is only one discussion about breakfast, as opposed to five discussions at different points in the process.
I tend to fall apart when I am required to jump from breakfast, to brush hair, make bed, pack a lunch, breakfast, get dressed, make bed, Mum can I ride my bike, I want porridge for breakfast, can so-and-so come over after school, I hate cornflakes, brush hair, it's my library day, I'm finished can I watch television, I want the hooded jumper, I hate school, where are your socks and shoes, no you can't wear pink sparkly socks to school, you are not sick, you just hate mornings... and so on. On Friday in particular I became fixated on finding a lost shoe, and stopped attending to the things which actually needed attention. It would have been far better to forget the shoe until after the children were in bed, but ... hindsight, right?
It is this kind of scattered approach to our mornings which utterly depletes my mental energy, usually before we have left the house, and it was just that kind of morning on Friday. It ended with me in tears, wondering if I would ever NOT feel like a failure and simultaneously wanting to quit/keep showing up.
After a teary conversation with my mother-in-love in which she told me I am actually doing admirably in these circumstances and I an not a disappointment, I slowly began to believe what I knew to be true until the lies grew quieter and I could dismiss them altogether - still there, but no longer demanding to be acknowledged.
The process of being shaped and sculpted was so painful, it felt as though I would break. If I had not given myself over to it, I would have stopped short of that morning's big reveal, and missed the knowledge gained. I would have missed that the God I surrendered my morning to before it all went haywire is the exact same God who knew the end of that morning. He knew I would find the shoe, and that it would all be okay.
You see, the story does not end with failure and despair. It ends with beauty, if we can just endure the process.
Sarah
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