I set my alarm for 6:00am this morning, assuming this would provide me a solid hour for writing and reading before the kids emerged from their respective bedrooms. I even, surprise of all surprises, got myself in bed by eleven. We had spent most of the day at the doctor and lounging in pajamas, telling the kiddos who knocked on the door that we were in quarantine, mostly to watch their eyebrows raise as they slowly backed away from the door. Jayci had a sky-high fever and a nasty cough, diagnosed as a nebulous virus, with the suggestion of honey to remedy the sore throat. We sip tea sweetened with extra doses of honey, and Jayci and Caden toast each other occasionally, with Caden triumphantly declaring he will "dwink my healfy healfy tea!"
So I suppose I should not have been surprised to hear coughing and yelling for mommy that started at around midnight and continued fairly unabated until nearly 5am. Somewhere around 3:00am, I listened to Adam's even breathing against the back-drops of Jayci's pathetic coughs. With a sigh, I turned over and switched off my alarm, putting my feet back on the ground to respond to Jayci's cries before I even had a chance to swing them up into bed.
I decided, laying in the dim light, to write my story differently. To write it with fingers run through blonde locks framing flushed pink cheeks. With cool fingers tracing circles on her back at 2:39, and again at 4:15. To write it snuggled under her blankets, the ones she has cast aside feverishly.
With tiptoed footsteps and bathroom-breaks without flushing, before slipping back between sheets gone back cold. Pressing icy toes into Adam's muscled calves for heat, turning the clock backwards so the numbers dont taunt with orange glow cast on heavy eyes.
To tell my story with coffee brewing while water boils for tea and the kids watch The Incredibles for the fifth time this week. With answering the door to icy blasts and please and thank-you from under-dressed-for-the-cold-teenagers. Pulling on worn boots with my pajama pants and a hoodie. Granola bars and bagels and driving three boys to school, a ride just long enough for the car to warm up as I pull back in through our gate.
Writing my story with knees on the floor scrubbing baseboards and sinks, shiny white and lemon mingling til the chrome finally gleams like new. Folding Anteaters uniforms, only after twice-through-the-washer, because it takes as much to extinguish their distinct odor of teenage-boy-sweat. Letting the kids wash the dishes, not bothering to re-do them myself before piling cups into cupboards and clattering forks in the drawer.
Writing in fits and starts between trips to shush Caden's boisterous songs from his crib. And padded footsteps to Jayci's room, pressing a cool washcloth to her hot forehead, the room emanating body heat, while she shivers and pulls blankets up under her chin.
And so today I write my story in cuddles and stories, and a piece-meal lunch of noodles and sweet potatoes and left-over fruit salad from Chick-fil-a. The story might not be deep, or feel important, or life-shattering. But it is real. And true. And hard and beautiful, somehow entangled together more firmly than the necklaces we strung back onto hooks earlier this morning. My day dissolves into entropy, all the best-laid-plans for naught, until I settle into the story I find myself writing with my very life. The story that God speaks more loudly sometimes in the little choices than the big ones. In scrubbing toilets and breathing grace. In time-outs and shared tasks, in paying bills and taking out the trash. Because sometimes loving the least and encountering Jesus there may not be what I expect, but it's exactly what I need.
So I suppose I should not have been surprised to hear coughing and yelling for mommy that started at around midnight and continued fairly unabated until nearly 5am. Somewhere around 3:00am, I listened to Adam's even breathing against the back-drops of Jayci's pathetic coughs. With a sigh, I turned over and switched off my alarm, putting my feet back on the ground to respond to Jayci's cries before I even had a chance to swing them up into bed.
I decided, laying in the dim light, to write my story differently. To write it with fingers run through blonde locks framing flushed pink cheeks. With cool fingers tracing circles on her back at 2:39, and again at 4:15. To write it snuggled under her blankets, the ones she has cast aside feverishly.
With tiptoed footsteps and bathroom-breaks without flushing, before slipping back between sheets gone back cold. Pressing icy toes into Adam's muscled calves for heat, turning the clock backwards so the numbers dont taunt with orange glow cast on heavy eyes.
To tell my story with coffee brewing while water boils for tea and the kids watch The Incredibles for the fifth time this week. With answering the door to icy blasts and please and thank-you from under-dressed-for-the-cold-teenagers. Pulling on worn boots with my pajama pants and a hoodie. Granola bars and bagels and driving three boys to school, a ride just long enough for the car to warm up as I pull back in through our gate.
Writing my story with knees on the floor scrubbing baseboards and sinks, shiny white and lemon mingling til the chrome finally gleams like new. Folding Anteaters uniforms, only after twice-through-the-washer, because it takes as much to extinguish their distinct odor of teenage-boy-sweat. Letting the kids wash the dishes, not bothering to re-do them myself before piling cups into cupboards and clattering forks in the drawer.
Writing in fits and starts between trips to shush Caden's boisterous songs from his crib. And padded footsteps to Jayci's room, pressing a cool washcloth to her hot forehead, the room emanating body heat, while she shivers and pulls blankets up under her chin.
And so today I write my story in cuddles and stories, and a piece-meal lunch of noodles and sweet potatoes and left-over fruit salad from Chick-fil-a. The story might not be deep, or feel important, or life-shattering. But it is real. And true. And hard and beautiful, somehow entangled together more firmly than the necklaces we strung back onto hooks earlier this morning. My day dissolves into entropy, all the best-laid-plans for naught, until I settle into the story I find myself writing with my very life. The story that God speaks more loudly sometimes in the little choices than the big ones. In scrubbing toilets and breathing grace. In time-outs and shared tasks, in paying bills and taking out the trash. Because sometimes loving the least and encountering Jesus there may not be what I expect, but it's exactly what I need.