One Foot In Front Of The Other

He hangs and swings from the high cupboard door impulsively and down it comes, heavy, hanging on just a hinge. I rush forward, holding it, grieving.

Why does he do these senseless things?

The same day he hangs his jacket, a nice one from Burlington, on the fence. Retrieving it with a yank, it rips ugly down the back, exposing down batting.

It all weakens my spirit, these and other annoyances. My emotions run high on hormones, besides, and I feel like crying.

I tell him he must clean the entire playroom by himself to help pay for the jacket. This brings torment and fits of anger, for the room resembles a cyclone.

He fusses long that he can't do it. It's too messy and he simply must have help.

A mountain of clothes taunt me from the couch. Dishes on the table, the counter, the sink, remind me of my inefficiency. Visible crumbs and debris shout at me from the floors and carpets.

I feel like my son...it's too messy and I don't want to do it and I. need. help.

I'm now treating eight pink-eye infections, two eyes per victim, and the three times daily drop schedule exhausts me, along with Beth's medicine and Peter's medicine and my own headache medicine.

The dryer threatens to go out and I raise my eyes to heaven as I'm apt to do when it all goes wrong at once. One day no heat, another day the timer won't advance, another day it works seamlessly. When can we even get to the used appliance place, with all these illnesses raging?

Peter's fussing from the playroom detours my thoughts. Self-pity, I shout at myself. Stop the self-pity!

"Peter, I have dishes and laundry and crumbs screaming at me and I feel exactly like you do. How can I do this to the glory of God, when all I feel like doing is crying?"


"The answer is the same everyday, Peter. We can do nothing apart from His strength. We're going to pray right now."

"Dear Father, help us to obey you and do our work for your glory. Help us to remember, before we fuss and complain, to come to you for help." 


Nothing changes immediately. We still feel like crying and Peter says it didn't work.

But in half an hour Peter makes significant progress and I have the dishes cleared from all surfaces and in the dishwasher, now humming away. I remind both of us to put one foot in front of the other and keep going...a long obedience in the same direction.

In no time the work completes itself as we mold our will to His. And we don't cry after all. 

"It worked, Mommy. Jesus is helping me. Look how much I got done."


I praise Him and agree that yes, Jesus helped us.

He always does.

My mind settles on this thought: Put one foot in front of the other and parent these children and suddenly, one day, as fast as the dirty dishes, they're gone.

And my eyes pool. Because I love this job and I hate this job but mostly I love this job.

And He whispers it.

"It's not about the dishes, the clothes, the crumbs, the broom. It's not about the chores, any of them, ever."


It's about the heart...yours and theirs.  In the mundane, in the moments, in the process, show them what journeying with Me is really about.