Little Messes

Some days are so much better than others. Which perhaps is just another way of saying some days are worse. It was one of those days for us around here recently, a day when details and circumstances didn’t seem to be in my favor. My husband was at work late, preparing for a trial; my boys were tired; one boy was overly-concerned about an upcoming test, and another boy was not concerned nearly enough.

I felt a sense of victory when I sent the boys upstairs to get ready for bed and they were all quick to obey. One boy, however, came back down a few minutes later wearing his undergarments on the outside of his pajamas. He looked like a luchador, one of those Mexican wrestlers famous for their high-flying moves and questionable choice of costume.

I started to protest his getup and then decided, why not? What’s it going to hurt for my son to wander around the house for the next twenty-minutes looking like a professional wrestler from Mexico City. It could be worse.

And then it was.

“It’s snowing,” said someone happily, and I turned to find a boy grating a block of parmesan cheese – over his head.

I was beginning to be amazed at all these opportunities to be frustrated, at the constant effort it was taking to choose patience over agitation. Why can’t there just be smooth sailing, I wanted to ask. But instead, I sat at the dining room table, still covered with dishes, and tried to rally. Dear God, I thought, I need you!

Part of the challenge on evenings like this is that I don’t simply want to make it through – I want to make it through with grace. And perhaps a bit of dignity. Sure I can get everyone in their bed, and get the lights out. But wouldn’t it be wonderful if I also had the energy to have everyone help clean up, and then have prayers. And then maybe story time after that followed by extended hugs and sweet kisses. And smiles! I want it all – and some nights, there is simply not the energy and wherewithal to make that happen.

Some nights you choose not only your battles, but what you can physically manage to get done. That night, I stood up from the table and walked over to the cheese. “You clear the table,” I said to the boy, and I eyed the snow drift. I decided that mess could wait.

Instead of worrying about the food on the floor and the dishes in the sink, I chose to be happy with the cleared-off table. A few minutes later, I was upstairs tucking everyone in, and that bit of energy I saved not fussing over sweeping I used to pray over the boys and kiss them goodnight.

The beginning of Lent is generally such a time of hope for me. Most years, I’m excited at the opportunity to regroup, to cut out the bad and amp up the good. I want to refocus and renew and use all this (minimal) suffering to draw closer to Christ.

But that is the key – Christ. And I have to remind myself, as we enter into this season, that he is the focus, not me. Whatever I aspire to accomplish over the next 40 days, I offer up to him. Because it’s not about perfectionism.

“We want to shut the doors to the messy rooms, so the guest doesn’t see the disorder,” said Fr. Raniero Cantalamessa, preacher of the papal household. “But this is not what we should do with Christ. We must open up the messy rooms of our hearts to him, because those are the ones that need some work.”

Sometimes, life is messy. We do our very best, and then ask God to get us where he wants us to be.