(This article courtesy of the Arlington Catholic Herald.)
Ordinarily, I would slip out of bed and race to my computer, thrilled with the opportunity to write in relative peace at a fairly early hour. Tonight, I stay where I am and reach for a notepad. I haven’t been a very nice mommy today. Now I feel as if I am in the company of angels.
It has been a bad day in a bad week in a bad month. Our house is for sale. The continuous stream of strangers interrupting our routine to view what must always be a perfectly kept house is beginning to wear on me. It is not easy to keep a house clean all the time when six children live there (five of them boys). It is even more difficult when I am kept awake night after night with a wheezing infant. While it is certainly pleasant to come home to a clean house, it is not easy to relax and be nice — or patient — or gentle — in these circumstances. I am quite certain that fatigue is the nearest occasion of sin. And contrary to what I have heard, cleanliness is not next to godliness.
None of that is important right now. I am trying to forget my unbridled impatience and anger in the past few days. I am trying not to worry about what needs to be accomplished in the near future. The kitchen floor can wait until tomorrow. The nebulizer and asthma medicine are at the ready. They can wait a moment or two. Right now, I am watching sleeping faces, hearing sweet breath and whispering a prayer of gratitude. This is a busy life. These are extraordinary circumstances by most people’s standards. But this is the best life for me. And I am very joyful here. Not always happy. But very joyful.
St. Elizabeth Ann Seton writes, “Looking up steadily spares the pain, both of retrospection and anticipation.” She, too, was the mother of many. She knew that sometimes we must stop where we are and count our children, counting our blessings. Mothers need to stop in the present moment and look to God. It is in that moment that He often presents us with the face of a child He has chosen especially for us. Oh, what a blessing when there are six faces looking at me in those moments, though at least one is bound to be dirty.
I often call to mind Mother Teresa’s observance that saying there were too many children is like saying there are too many flowers. I don’t really believe there could ever be too many children. I do acknowledge, however, that being the mother of many has its own challenges. The realtor wants us to paint. He told me this over the phone today as I watched two little boys kick a ball in the foyer. I painted that foyer yesterday. I laughed out loud. I am sure the realtor thinks I’m hysterical. There are children growing here, strong and sturdy as my perennial wildflowers, and no coat of paint will cover that.
I think my house looks beautiful — I really do. I am certain that someone will want to buy it. What I’m not so certain about is when. That is in God’s timing. I turned all matters of timing over to Him a month ago. The problem is what I will do while I wait for God’s timing. And how can I live this life of many blessings when they may not look like blessings by the world’s standards?
Will I sacrifice my entire lifestyle for the marketing of this house? Will I exhaust myself striving to appear perfect to the strangers who look into my world? Will I shuffle everyone out of the house during naptime again to please those who don’t consider six homeschooled children a selling point? Will I yell at these children again tomorrow when they act as if this house, which must be kept perfect, is their home and their refuge and their place to play and be kids? Or will I take the blessing of this moment, this time that God set aside to remind me of what really matters, and let it shine on my day tomorrow?
I hope that I will let go of the pride and the perfectionism that so often comes between me and my Maker. I hope I will gather up my angels and make sure they know how dear they are to me. I hope I will remember what is eternally important. I hope I will look up steadily. I hope I will be gentle and patient — with them and with myself. As the nebulizer hums and my two-year-old snores, that will be my prayer. Thank God I can start again tomorrow.
