Joy and Failure and Vienna Sausages

Let me be honest, in case that last post gave the impression that I, so graciously put my needs last and serve and serve and serve all those around me.

I’m a mess.  More of a mess than my house.  More messy than grape jelly smudges.

Because my heart is not all want to clean and cook and serve and love.  I want what I want, too, and not just the good things He wants for me.  Which mostly is time for myself.  And too much Coca-Cola and not enough vegetables.  And time to be lazy and have fun and never work a moment of my life, and sleep in on Sunday instead of riding a noisy bus to church with shrieking and giggling teenagers.  Truly.  That’s where my heart can go.  And it’s a good thing the Good Lord doesn’t leave me where I’d put my own self most days (in bed, under covers), but gives me whatever I need to get up and do it anyway, at least most of the time.

Yesterday, I got dressed for the day at 11 a.m.  As I type this, my 2-year-old is smashing Pop Tart pieces in my hair… remnants of his sugary-snack-food breakfast, while the others guzzled down a big glass 'o Kool Aid as the sun came up.  I am not getting any mother-of-the-year awards any time soon.  (Which is why I so appreciated the always lovely Lysa TerKeurst's post at InCourage today).

Sometimes, I yell at my kids.  I burn the biscuits.  I leave the dinner dishes in the sink and they’re still there, stinking, the whole next day…. Just so we’re clear.  I served my son Vienna sausages from the can for snack today (yuck, I know).  Shameful.

And the whole thing about baking fresh bread?  I love to bake bread.  I do.  But when I went to get around to it yesterday, I discovered that the insides of the bread machine were missing, probably left behind when we moved here.  Seven months ago.  Because that is how infrequently I get around to baking bread.  In case I had anyone fooled…

I’m just sayin’.

I have twelve people in this house and there are more days than I care to admit that I high-tail it for the back of the house, for my bedroom, and close the door and pound my fists on the bed with hot tears and plead with the Lord about why in the world He put me here, about why He called someone here who is so obviously, so painfully inept at domestic responsibility. 

But I do long to serve these ones around me.  I really do.  As tiring and frustrating and oh-how-exhausting all this living can be, at the end of the day… what’s the alternative?  I can come around to finding the joy in these things because… would I rather there be no more grass-stained toddler tees to wash?  No more powdered donut dust trails across tables or size 7 footprints to clean off dining chairs?  No more giggles or sticky-lip kisses or Pop Tarts in my hair?  Heavens, no.

And I count it all as joy…