I’m not a poet, and I know it. (Sorry, couldn’t resist!) But there are moments when I feel a corny poem rising from the depths of my being in response to a didn’t-go-as-planned kind of day.
Today was one of those days.
My morning began with orange paint splattered across my off-white rug, and afternoon “rest time” was eaten up by Little Esther escaping her naptime prison—four times—dressed like this:
After escape #4, I gave up.
I let the boys watch an animal documentary while Esther snuggled her “Kitty,” and I plopped onto a sanded but still unfinished chair in my basement and typed this:
Eulogy to Nap Time
Seamless waters amidst the Sea.
Black, frothy coffee and time to Be,
Hallowed space between two and three,
That’s what nap time used to be.
But schooling the minds of kiddos three,
while chasing escaping Princess E
and attempting to understand Math U See,
after staring at mummies in History,
there just isn’t any time, you see.
That hallowed hour slowly drowned
under that morphing mound,
of reading, writing and arithmetic
and football practice with coach Fellick.
Seamless waters amidst the Sea.
Black, frothy coffee and time to Be,
Hallowed space between two and three,
That’s what nap time used to Be.
Seriously though—after a morning of juggling the teaching of three little brains with running to the fridge every half hour to satiate growling bellies, and maneuvering through multiple interruptions like this: Isaiah, yelling up the stairs to me: “Mom, I’m bleeding. Josiah hit me in the nose with his head.” Me: “Clean it up.” Isaiah: “I wiped it on the coffee table so I wouldn’t ruin my shirt,” . . . my heart longs to say a few choice words about losing my afternoon hour of peace!
Surrendering the writing of my day to the Author of my story isn’t easy, and my not-so-pretty responses to unforeseen plot lines reveal what my heart really wants: a seamless day more than Him.
Every-day trials like nap-less afternoons and bloody noses call my heart to surrender–to trade fighting for seamless days with praying for eyes to see God’s beauty in chaos, to marvel at Esther’s tenacity and Isaiah’s earnest attempt to keep a white shirt clean, to praise the God who weaves the tapestry of my days to help me see more of Him.
Becca B.
Pursued 