When Grace Doesn't Do the Dishes
My eyes squint open, and I get my bearings. My bed. Light coming in the window. What morning is it? Tuesday. What's on the schedule today? I don't hear kids. Where are the kids? Oh, right - at mom's. I need to go get them so they can get home and do school and piano. Remember to thank mom for keeping them so we could go meet Adriana. Adriana, who has been a friend forever. Hooray for forever friends. How am I feeling today? Stretch everything - it all seems to be working. Open hands and stretch, close hands. Open hands and stretch, close hands. Joints all lubed up and ready to go. Check phone for missed calls or texts overnight, not because I'm so popular but because I have so much family nearby and anything can happen at anytime. Hooray for so much family nearby. So much to be thankful for.
So wait, then, why am I crying?
Why, when I wake up in good health, surrounded by people who love me and who require a relative precious little of me, in a well-built, air conditioned home in a location where probably two-thirds of the country would rather live - why am I crying?
If you ask me, I will tell you: I believe in the sufficiency of Grace. I do. I believe that Christ is all. Christ is sufficient.
But Christ doesn't do the dishes. Jesus has, not once, offered to clean the bathroom for me, or practice piano with a grumpy tween, or follow the baby through the house, picking up the trail of snack foods she is leaving behind like a flower girl. To my knowledge, he hasn't picked up the phone and called the fence guy, or researched dental insurance or made next year's curriculum decisions or run to Whole Foods to pick up clean-eating snacks for the family. He didn't run my 2 miles this morning, and his defeated voice is not the one the girls are hearing all day long: "Focus. Use your time wisely. That's beautiful. Do what you've been asked to do."
And this makes me cry. Not because I am sad that He doesn't physically do those things for me, but because somehow, in the sufficiency of his grace, I am supposed to find the strength to do them. Or at least most of them. I tear up because I don't understand where the gospel fits into this jumble of everyday tedium.
I think my pastor would say that the gospel frees me - that my righteousness and salvation is not contingent upon whether or not my house is clean or how well my kids are behaved or whether or not any of us eat a clean dinner tonight. And I know that, but the reality is that it all still needs to get done. Maybe not on my timeline, maybe not to my exacting standards, maybe not as well as my neighbors seem to do it, but it must get done. I am free, but I am not free to lay on the sofa while my kids go all Lord of the Flies and our house ends up in a news story that begins with "Mom Gives Up: Authorities were called to this East Fort Lauderdale home today after three young girls were seen getting into a mini van with shopping bags and a grocery list as the ten year old took the wheel..."
I pull it together, pick up the girls and we get back home to begin our day of school and piano. Immediately the chorus of "Mom? Mom! Mom..." begins and as I step on a bobby pin and kick a bag of cheez-its across the floor I feel myself starting to lose it. Find the grace. Find the grace. Christ is sufficient, I mutter to myself. Then an unusual request: "MOM! Will you play a song for us? On the piano?"
They wear me down and so 'One song,' I say. 'Then back to work you little slackers. I know what you're up to.' As I take the bench and start working my achy hands over the keys, I find the Grace. My beautiful, healthy children have asked for a few minutes of my time. Without realizing it, they have asked me to set aside a moment to do something that brings me joy and peace, that reminds me that I do have a special gift - something that proves that there is a life inside of me that exists outside of the bonds of dirty dishes and wrinkled laundry and messy floors. And in those few moments, I feel the sufficiency of Christ. 'This, Amy. This is how I am sufficient - not to help you get it all done, but in the middle of it all, to remind you who you are.'
So wait, then, why am I crying?
Why, when I wake up in good health, surrounded by people who love me and who require a relative precious little of me, in a well-built, air conditioned home in a location where probably two-thirds of the country would rather live - why am I crying?
If you ask me, I will tell you: I believe in the sufficiency of Grace. I do. I believe that Christ is all. Christ is sufficient.
But Christ doesn't do the dishes. Jesus has, not once, offered to clean the bathroom for me, or practice piano with a grumpy tween, or follow the baby through the house, picking up the trail of snack foods she is leaving behind like a flower girl. To my knowledge, he hasn't picked up the phone and called the fence guy, or researched dental insurance or made next year's curriculum decisions or run to Whole Foods to pick up clean-eating snacks for the family. He didn't run my 2 miles this morning, and his defeated voice is not the one the girls are hearing all day long: "Focus. Use your time wisely. That's beautiful. Do what you've been asked to do."
And this makes me cry. Not because I am sad that He doesn't physically do those things for me, but because somehow, in the sufficiency of his grace, I am supposed to find the strength to do them. Or at least most of them. I tear up because I don't understand where the gospel fits into this jumble of everyday tedium.
I think my pastor would say that the gospel frees me - that my righteousness and salvation is not contingent upon whether or not my house is clean or how well my kids are behaved or whether or not any of us eat a clean dinner tonight. And I know that, but the reality is that it all still needs to get done. Maybe not on my timeline, maybe not to my exacting standards, maybe not as well as my neighbors seem to do it, but it must get done. I am free, but I am not free to lay on the sofa while my kids go all Lord of the Flies and our house ends up in a news story that begins with "Mom Gives Up: Authorities were called to this East Fort Lauderdale home today after three young girls were seen getting into a mini van with shopping bags and a grocery list as the ten year old took the wheel..."
I pull it together, pick up the girls and we get back home to begin our day of school and piano. Immediately the chorus of "Mom? Mom! Mom..." begins and as I step on a bobby pin and kick a bag of cheez-its across the floor I feel myself starting to lose it. Find the grace. Find the grace. Christ is sufficient, I mutter to myself. Then an unusual request: "MOM! Will you play a song for us? On the piano?"
They wear me down and so 'One song,' I say. 'Then back to work you little slackers. I know what you're up to.' As I take the bench and start working my achy hands over the keys, I find the Grace. My beautiful, healthy children have asked for a few minutes of my time. Without realizing it, they have asked me to set aside a moment to do something that brings me joy and peace, that reminds me that I do have a special gift - something that proves that there is a life inside of me that exists outside of the bonds of dirty dishes and wrinkled laundry and messy floors. And in those few moments, I feel the sufficiency of Christ. 'This, Amy. This is how I am sufficient - not to help you get it all done, but in the middle of it all, to remind you who you are.'
'But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is
made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly
about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me.' - 2 Corinthians 12:9
Comments