How time unfolds

They say time flies, but I like to think it unfolds.  It gives of itself in the same 24 hour increments, but we open the gift of it in varying speeds.  Time doesn't change.  We do.

These recent days have found that every last bath towel disappears from the hall closet on a daily basis.  Apparently boredom is the teenager's answer to the question of obtaining impeccable hygiene.  Those towels reappear in forsaken heaps on the wet bathroom floor, or peak out from under some unmade bed.  A sigh escapes as I pick them up, just as I did the day before, and throw them into the constantly running wash machine.  I see my reflection in the shine of its metal.  The truth of these strange times settles into my eyes, changing my outlook.  Gone are the days when I couldn't catch up on laundry.  I have nothing but time to savor this unfolding.

I haven't worked a normal schedule at the hospital in two months.  In the midst of this pandemic, even nurses have been asked to stay home.  And while I may not be essential to that outside world, I have found the work in my own inner world a sacred necessity.

My kids are older now.  They do most of the online learning on their own, and for this I could weep with gratitude.  Or dance.  Or do both at the same time.  My point is that they don't "need" me like they did in those early years, but I am seeing how my unchanging presence during these ever changing times has been an anchor for their days.  I see the struggle, the disappointment, the isolation taking its toll.  I can't change all of the hard places they fall into, but I can be a soft place for them to land.

Motherhood is often a thankless job.  There is no earthly glory in wiping noses and rear ends.  No glory in checking the homework, or finally finding a meal that everyone likes.  We ring ourselves out to the point of being empty, and then we squeeze out just a bit more.  We don't get raises for raising our children, but that doesn't mean our efforts are not essential.  There is purpose in this hidden work.  There is holiness in this silent serving.  Those floors we scrub are sacred ground, because our homes are the places we show our children who Jesus is.  We teach them how to love sacrificially, how to lay down our lives for the life of another.

And while our heads are bent low to do dishes and wash babies and exhale prayers to get through another hard fought day, He raises them up to himself.  And eye to eye He says, "You are seen, you are known, you are appreciated and loved by Me!"

I've been tempted to focus on the losses of these days.  Sometimes I let myself go there.  I name them outright, and have a good cry over what could have been but isn't.  Mostly though, I try to hold onto these extra ordinary days.  Yes, they run together in their monotony.  I forget the day of the week, and occasionally the month.  I get grumpy when I lose sight of my present purpose.  But I know that this won't last forever, and to return to what was is to say goodbye to what is.

I'm folding towels in the center of my kitchen again.  All of life has slowed around me, and in this moment I can see the gift.  I unfold this new rhythm of time, and I count the joy of its presence.

Psalm 139:1-6

You have searched me, Lord, 

and you know me.

You know when I sit and when I rise;

you perceive my thoughts from afar.

You discern my going out and my lying down;

you are familiar with all my ways.

Before a word is on my tongue, 

you, Lord, 

know it completely.

You hem me in behind and before, 

and you lay your hand upon me.

Such knowledge is too wonderful for me,

too lofty for me to attain.