It’s ten o’clock at night, and I just finished cleaning applesauce off the walls. (Full discloser: I didn’t technically finish, but I’ll have to try again tomorrow with a scrubby sponge and when it’s not, you know, ten o’clock.)
Evan and I have been battling the flu for days now, and now Ian is covered in a rash from hand, foot, and mouth.
I say all this just to be clear: motherhood is not always glamorous and Instagram-worthy. I can’t even clean this all up enough to post to social media under the guise of authenticity. You know, #RealLife and all that.
I feel like a bit of a mess this week. I am struggling to keep up with work, laundry, Ian, or much of anything at all.
It is in these moments–these in-between, mundane, yucky, tiring, but normal–when I most struggle to see Jesus. No tragedy, no mountain, just blah. Sometimes I count gifts and sometimes I play worship music, and all that helps, but I still can’t always shake the feeling that I am not enough, that all this is not enough.
I’ll be honest: sometimes, I just want to transcend all this, to rise above the mundane somehow. But, as soon as I think it, I hear a gentle whisper say, “That is not My way.”
Jesus was hardly one to transcend. No, He made His way among us. I think this was tricky for the disciples too. They understood when He healed the blind man and raised Lazarus from the dead: power! glory! But when He wanted to scribble in the sand or touch the lepers? What of that?
The Man got down and washed their feet, for goodness sake, and I imagine, He never once prayed for a cleaning lady like I did as I stared down that applesauce tonight.
It’s not time for me to transcend, not today. Today, I’ve got to dig a little deeper, sink down a little lower.