Moms can be so fast. We catch rolling objects about to fall from the counter and crash onto the floor. We catch tiny people when they nearly tumble off the couch. We catch and we hold. Moms are trusty catchers and holders.
In my morning prayer, the last words of Psalm 63 (a prayer to God) caught me: “My whole being clings to you, your right hand holds me fast.” Moms juggle, God holds. Moms multi-task, God holds. Moms schedule and administer, God holds.
Always there are changes in your life. Beginnings and endings, trials and tribulations, joys and sorrows. Moms orchestrate through those changes and all the while, God holds. It is the one constant. You who are busy juggling, multi-tasking, scheduling, administering, grieving, worrying, celebrating. God holds.
God holds all the stuff. God holds the promise that you do not do the wild and wonderful work of being a mom alone. And God holds you. That’s the greatest gift of all. You who catch and hold so much from day to day are already held in the constant love of the God who will hold you forever.
Today I think I will clean inside the refrigerator so that tomorrow it will look like I did not clean it at all.
One month ago I washed the windows so that one month later it would look like I didn’t.
I also make our bed, re- (and then re-) organize the kitchen cupboard that provides temporary housing for snacks that quickly disappear, and on rare occasion I have been known to fold and sort clothing and accessories belonging to my daughter’s dolls (under her direction and supervision).
All of these chores can be filed together under the letter “A” for absurd. These are absurd ways to spend time. I know my work will be unnoticed by most everyone but me, and my efforts will be undone rather quickly.
Yet for a brief moment there is order where there had not been. Like God speaking into the chaos and nothingness at the start of God’s first day on the job, it all makes sense for just long enough to take it all in; to believe that order might be possible after all.
And then someone raids the refrigerator, or soaks the windows when he meant to water the grass, or confuses the drawers that belong strictly to the doll’s stockings with the drawer designated for headbands.
What order?
Like a day that does what it does instead of what you expected it to. Like kids for whom you dreamed one dream who now occupy their own quite different dream. Like you, who woke up ready for this day and now you feel as undone as the formerly-organized snack cupboard; as dis-orderly as my refrigerator will be by the time the sun tucks itself beneath the horizon.
We are meant to be both done and undone, we human creatures. To be both orderly and dis-orderly, both lost and found, both “W” for wise and “A” for absurd. You have noticed the order God once pronounced long ago for the very first time did not stick. But God stuck around; kept speaking as stubbornly as the mom who continues to do the absurd chores. Even when it doesn’t look like we did them at all. But we did. We sure did.
After five days of silence and a long, quiet drive on the unending pavement that is I94, I am home.
Last week began a three-month sabbatical from my work as senior pastor. At a hermitage in Northern Minnesota, my sabbatical commenced with a silent retreat that positioned me as unavailable to my family and congregation. It was a week of fast learning for all of us, me in particular, that I can step away (far away) and all is well. People continue to be cared for, kids are fed, and sometimes my husband can find a new shampoo bottle in the drawer in the bathroom when his runs out, although sometimes he cannot, like this week.
Who excitedly transforms into a hermit for five days in a tiny cabin tucked among a dozen or so other cabins occupied by fellow hermits to whom you cannot speak? Hermit, by the way, refers to someone who escapes everyday life in exchange for the quiet. It was like Bible Camp for Introverts. Nap, walk, read or write for hours. Food and water is left on your doorstep and time is spent listening to God, which means listening to the woods and its creatures, listening to your body and responding when it needs food or rest, and listening to the Spirit’s whispers in your prayers.
I learned (again) that we actually need very little, and the less there is (food, water, furniture), the more it is valued.
I turned off my phone Monday afternoon and did not touch it again until Friday. I missed it only twice, both times when I had an urge to Google an author whose work I was reading. Thank goodness that was not an option. You know what happens when you want to Google one thing. It’s “If You Give a Mouse a Cookie” every time! On your way to Googling, you stop to check your Instagram feed, which reminds you to send an email, at which point you decide to look at your bank account, and on and on. There is no such thing as a quick Google.
All genders can be seen ambling along the paths at the hermitage, but one day I noticed a half dozen or so women roughly my age. Later, I saw them congregate in the main building on my way to the shower. (Yes, hermits do shower, thank the Lord.) It appeared to be a women’s retreat. How brilliant! A gathering of women, perhaps moms, who took a couple of days to respond to no one’s needs but their own, answered no one’s questions, explained to no partner that your shampoo can easily be found by pulling open the drawer!
Moms often give in a way that makes it slip from our minds how we, too, are children of God. Children, all children, need to be known and loved and released from the mental load, if only for long enough to sneak into the woods for a few days of quiet.
Today begins a three-month sabbatical for me, compliments of a generous congregation in southwest North Dakota. They have gifted me with three months to spend time with my favorites: family, books, pen and paper, and quiet. My first stop is a particularly quiet one: the woods.
I am returning to a place of silent retreat, where I will leave all devices behind. It will be a quiet week when the noise my phone makes and the voices in my head reminding me to do this and do that will fade away. Rest will be priority; reading and journaling the lone items on my to-do list. Each day will be guided by the Spirit’s words – which I will actually hear over the voices that have then faded away.
Listening is much easier when we do not try to hear everything all at once. I hear nothing when I expect myself to hear everything. There are invisible volume buttons to adjust. Turn down the work volume once I get home. Turn down the mom guilt dial when I am doing my best at work. Turn down the unrealistic expectations for myself volume at home and at work and suddenly I might hear God reminding me to let go. Let go of trying to hear everything, God might whisper, and the quiet will tell you the one thing you truly need to hear.
It is enough simply to be. Next week, after an ear-full of quiet, I may tell you what I heard.
Lisa Lewton 