A red bird flies from the side stoop's rail as I open the door to drop a dirty diaper outside where it will wait until I'm ready to walk it all the way through the backyard to the garbage bins. The brilliant red flutter reminds me there is beauty out there, all around, even in the midst of the daily decisions I make about where poop should go and when it will get there.
A dirty sock tossed across the bedroom toward the general vicinity of the hamper lands squarely on my dresser, and it takes me more seconds than I wish to discern if it's meant to be there or if it should be somewhere else. Dirty. Yes. It goes in the laundry and I'll see it again later, reunite it to its sole-mate, tuck it in a drawer somewhere.
We do laundry on Mondays and put all the trash from every nook and cranny on the curb. Tuesdays the garbage truck really does come and I always pretend I'll iron the clothes I washed on Mondays. We're finding this cadence, this rhythm to live into, and it feels imperfect but freeing.
Still every day, without fail, at various points throughout the day this question keeps surfacing in my consciousness. As I do all the home and toddler things *again* and notice my nails are too long *again* and the little man who shares my days breaks the rule about everything *again,* there's a question just under my skin, in all the right ways, that is slowly keeping me sane.
What story am I living in?
On Sunday mornings we sing about the Story, loud and letting it move our whole bodies in surrender to the Narrator. "Holy, there is no one like You; there is none beside You; open up my eyes in wonder. Show me who You are and fill me with Your heart and lead me in Your love to those around me."
And on Monday mornings? Where has the Story gone? What's the narrative for making a home and being a mother (or simply -- though it seems not simple enough -- being a person) that could infuse the day with conviction and joy, loud and letting it move my whole body in surrender to the Narrator?
I have to find the Story every single day, I think. I know. I know!
The thought occurs to me as I'm drying my hair, least favorite of all personal hygiene tasks, how I could be the only person liable to lose my story.
Professional athletes do not. Military personnel in the heat of battle better not. Politicians with agendas and power do not.
Why me? Why forget who I am? Why lose the storyline in the midst of repetitive activity as though mine is lesser than?
This is what the enemy wants, I realize. That I would lose the Storyline of eternity and live for a small "s" story of today. That this is all there is and that the overarching theme of my day should be "fun" or "productive" or "comfy" or "survival" or "tomorrow." And all too often the serpent wins.
Because the last thing the enemy of God wants is for the people of God to remember that their days are woven into the Story of eternity and the theme thereof is Glory. He wants our hearts numb and stood still despite the unstopping passage of time toward That Glorious Day when the King returns and all is accounted for.
That line makes me pause. Yeah. On this normal Monday it hits me again -- I really believe there is a carpenter King named Jesus who sits at the right hand of the throne of God Almighty who will tear apart the heavens one day -soon- and put an end to time as we know it, make all things new, and bring His kingdom to the earth.
That is really, actually, legitimately going to happen.
And that is the Story within which I live today, diaper decisions and dirty socks and all.
And it just has to change everything. Every last thing...