Quite Enough

So I'm blessed with a hard-working husband, three adorable monkeys, a modest but comfortable home, and the ability to pay our bills, but yet I still want to complain.

Why is this?

Truthfully, it's part of my old nature, the sinful one, that isn't comfortable with only giving praise.  I say, "I had a pretty good day, babe, but..."  There's always a but. 

Staying thankful is a struggle.  Our house is tight, our closets stuffed.  Our three growing kids (9 and under) share one bedroom.  The baseboards have never been painted, and our small garage, after many, many years of labor, the place I wrestle laundry every day and our guest bed sleeps, is a half-finished project, no flooring and two-thirds of a paint job.  The white cabinets my mother-in-law so painstakingly painted are now chipping, a walnut-hued acne, after ten years of love and abuse.  Our walls are pocked with scrapes and almost-on-color touch-ups, curtain-rod holes, and streak marks from the once-leaky roof.  Our guest bathroom reeks, the smell of a men's locker room and a Port A Potty, all in one.  I have no idea why, except that it earns its keep with toothpaste-and-soap-smearing contests, sticky fingers, and five behinds. That could be why.  And then there's the accumulation of matter -- toys, dolls, doll accessories, clothes, jackets, shoes, games, movies, books, homeschool materials, backpacks, lunch bags (we have eight), sippy cups, multiplied by five (except, of course, for the sippy cups).  Did I mention shoes?  Three females under one roof has bought us a lot of shoes. 

As their bodies grow, the sizes of everything grows, but their drawers and (one) closet stay the same.
Every fall and spring I go through their clothes and pull out the too-small ones, wash and shift hand-me-downs into already-full drawers.  And every December, before Christmas, I pull out the most boring or broken toys, and smuggle them by slight of hand and dark bags to cousins, the church nursery, or trash (shhhh).  Every night I try to coax bits of our life back into a home somewhere in the house, jackets in closets, shoes in baskets or shoe holders, dolls into whatever bin will hold them, clothing on hangers, keys on the holder, receipts and bills in files, and on the list goes.  It fills my days like dishes and dirty laundry, round and round like an old dance I know like the back of my hand but not nearly as thrilling.

I awake to a predictable day, and I heave a sigh.  I forget to give thanks for it.  I ignore the blessing.  I see the dust and the clutter.  I begin to undo grace.  I don't return it to its Giver.

Today I looked beyond me and the shouldering I do at every tired step.  I stopped suddenly, in the middle of warming leftovers, my heart caught by the low foothills sloping just beyond the backyard.  Their dusty floors were bathed in the blushing-violet tones of dusk.  Shadows hung at their corners, drowning in fields of sunny creosote bushes, skin-toned sagebrush, and burnt-orange Joshua trees, and they sang in quiet praise to the One I forget to thank.

It's almost as if I could hear their chorus.  I longed to run across their backs.  I began to echo their praise.

"I lift my eyes up, unto the mountains,
Where does my help come from?
My help comes from You,
Maker of Heaven,
Creator of the earth.
Oh how I need You, Lord,
You are my only hope,
You're my only prayer,
So I will wait for You,
To come and rescue me,
Come and give me life..."

I see them still; my heart echoes them still.

Be still, my soul.  Shhhhhhhh.  Return to Him the grace He lavishes on you.  Know that He is God in all of the disquiet of life, and that is quite enough for always.