Bright and Happy Days

It's mid-morning here.  I'm standing at the counter, greasing bread pans and pouring in golden banana bread batter.  The sunshine is pouring through the open windows and I can hear all those crazy kids of mine, playing pretend out in that mess we call a yard.  "...and pretend I'm the Mother and you're the daughter and I'm sending you out to pick flowers...'kay?"  The girls are in their own world.  The toddler rides that squeaky tricycle round and round the driveway and Ben, my oldest, is squatted right down in the dirt, scratching at something with a bit of a stick.

Baby Peter is on my back, his fat chubby legs kicking ever now and then, alternating blowing raspberries and chewing on the straps of the carrier.  I slide bread pans into the warm oven and wipe my hands.  Next, down to the basement to switch over laundry.  Peter makes no comment as we head down the narrow stairs into the cool gloom of our Michigan basement.  Back up, this time lugging a basket with me.

After I get this laundry folded, I pause for a minute to answer a chat from a friend doing the same sort of thing I am.  Through out the day we connect in the quiet moments in between tasks.  We're co-workers, in a way.  Both of us excusing ourselves every now and then to change diapers, scrub pots, cook dinner, read stories.  Those few stolen moments to confirm and encourage one another are an important part of my day.  They give me the encouragement I need to keep going, one mundane task at a time, and also remind me that this, this is a noble, beautiful, holy work that I'm doing here.  Diaper changes included.

God's economy is one crazy thing for the human mind to understand.  I'm here in a t shirt with baby drool on the shoulder, ancient birkenstocks on my bare feet and a pair of yoga pants that really should have been thrown out months ago.  Yet to my kids, I'm the center of their home.  To my God, I'm His special girl, getting it done even when I'd rather be off doing something else.  Some days it is a hard lesson to learn.  Today, in all this sunshine and peace, I wonder that I ever doubted.

The timer dings on the oven and I pull out steaming loaves just as the girls come crashing in the screen door, sniffing the air.  "What'cha cooking, Mama?"  Then: "YAY, Banana bread!  Can we eat it out in the tree house?"

They are a right mess and I'm smiling and shaking my head and thinking that's probably how I look to God these days: a dirty little mess of a girl.

And on this bright and happy day I know just who and Whose I am.


Galatians 4:6.7
Because you are sons, God sent the Spirit of his Son into our hearts, the Spirit who calls out, "Abba, " So you are no longer a slave, but a son; and since you are a son, God has made you also an heir.