instead

I don’t like to be busy, that’s what I’ll tell you. And then I may complain about a schedule that overwhelms me, an introvert and a homebody, when our calendar may appear a paltry collection of appointments and extracurriculars to the mom stimulated by activity. There are playdates, ballet, Brazilian jiu-jitsu, swim lessons. Small group, speech therapy, mornings I’m shaping loaves, evenings I’m making nut milk for overnight oats. There are pots of bones simmering for hours, jars of kimchi bubbling on the counter, empty cups to collect urine samples for the children who won’t drink enough water. There are prescriptions to fill, dentists to visit, haircuts to squeeze in. There are lost shoes that ought to be found instead of replaced, stains to spray and pray come out, divorced socks to reconcile. Somewhere in the hours hurtling onward, there is school, and after the obligatory lessons in reading, math, spelling, and grammar, we crack open the Hobbit, Michael Reeves, Story of the World, a poetry anthology. 

Some of these things are necessary: the learning, the dentist, speech therapy. But, truly, is anything else? 

I think of what I could do, and this seems like what I should do. There are no options: if something could happen, it must. If the slices of bread in the freezer have dwindled, feed the starter and begin the levain. If the child has not mastered doggy paddling, head to the Y shouldering a bag of towels, nose clips, and goggles. If we continue to homeschool, ensure every week has at least one playdate to provide hopefully adequate socialization.

My to-do list is a mash-up of the things that really, truly ought to get accomplished, and a very long smattering of the things that don’t. And I see them all as not-optional. 

When I say I don’t like to be busy, I don’t really mean it. What I mean is: I don’t like activities that take me outside the house, because the things I have planned for myself require far too much time to leave. I don’t mean that I don’t want a calendar with empty squares. I mean I don’t want to haul my children to their extracurriculars when I have dough rising and sheets tangled in the dryer and a houseful of naked beds. I mean I don’t want to hang out and make small talk when no one in my family has washed their hair in a week. I don’t want to sit through ballet class when I could be chopping onions and garlic to season our dinner. I don’t want to drive to BJJ when I could be attempting to get the floors picked up enough to sweep the dirt the dog drags in. 

I do want to be busy. But I want to busy myself with tasks that make me feel like I have done something. Look! I worked! What does ballet class do for me, anyway? Who am I thinking of, truly, when I’m sitting on the hard carpeted floor with my baby, chatting with other moms who somehow always look more put together and well groomed than me (even in sweats! How is this achieved?). Who am I thinking of when we’re driving to BJJ and I don’t feel like having a conversation, I feel like rehearsing my to-do list so I don’t forget something that wasn’t even important in the first place?

Someday, I’m going to rest. Not Sunday, no, there’s no time for that after church. Just…someday. I’ll lay in the sun for no reason. Crack open a book that I actually want to read in the middle of the day, not at the end, not to skim while my eyelids droop. Get the kids back in bed after breakfast to snuggle because we don’t wake up at the same time in the morning. Leave the laundry to fold another day. Order takeout. Skip the exercise and stop obsessing over how I might have an even harder time sleeping if I haven’t used my muscles.

But not today. Today I must do do do work work work don’t stop don’t slow down DON’T FORGET ANYTHING ON THE LIST.

In the mornings, when I have poured my second cup—always the second, on the first I’m staggering in the dark like I’m drunk—I pray. That they would have ears to hear. Let them hear! My children don’t listen, they need to listen, I pray that they would listen. Our faith is auditory, after all. They need to listen.

But what about me?

I don’t need to listen. I am Mom. I work. I do. I slave. I don’t need ears to hear, I need words to correct or encourage, to teach or remind. I need to speak. 

This is what I have realized, though: in all of the doing, all the working, all the lists rewritten over and over because they ended up tucked into a book I’m halfway through reading and not interested in finishing, I have not listened.

I say I don’t like being busy. But maybe what I really mean is that I don’t like slowing down enough to listen. Sometimes there’s a silence that communicates more than words. Do I notice? Sometimes there is a heart issue behind the sibling conflict that needs to be drawn out, instead of the fight broken up. Sometimes there is a hesitation to confess a sin, admit a fear. Sometimes there is simply a very long boring story that someone wants to tell.

I think I do like being busy. I like being busy with the things that make me feel good about myself. And all the while I’m praying for my children to learn to listen, I’m speaking to myself, rehashing things that happened, analyzing problems, fearing the future, making my lists. 

I’m not listening to my children. I’m only speaking to them.

I’m afraid I do that when I pray, too.

Here: another list, one of all my requests, often for other people which is good, but I’m pressed for time because I need to check the baked oatmeal that I smell in the oven. I’ll say thank you for something because I know I ought to rejoice and again rejoice. I’ll repent of the obvious sins I commit, I’ll ask to be searched and tried but I’m out of time to hear the verdict. There’s a wicked way in me, I’m sure, but I don’t need to stick around to know exactly what it is, I’ll be sanctified in the long run. 

Sometimes, being busy is just a very good excuse not to listen. And maybe our rest is important, not to relax or rejuvenate or recover from the packed agenda, but to slow down enough to hear.

See to it that you do not refuse him who is speaking.

Who IS speaking.

Let us strive to enter the Sabbath rest not just with open hands free of labor, but open ears.