House on the Rock

“You still writing?” A dear friend asked innocently over a gluten-free grazing table. The question was not mean to invoke feelings of shame, yet I bowed my head guiltily and sighed. “Not for a while. Not much going on lately — every day is pretty much the same.”

The mundanity of my present life has brought little in the way of spiritual revelations, profound metaphors, or awe-inspiring blog prompts. In fact, other than a prayer journal often interrupted mid-sentence, I’ve hardly thought of a thing to write at all.

But mundane does not mean miserable, and most of life is comprised of very ordinary moments. Perhaps it could be worthwhile to pen the routine that rules our waking hours. Luke won’t be little forever. I won’t be in my twenties for long. A little girl is entering our world come September, and while I have a moment to myself, I might want to remember these days.

We wake anywhere between 4:50 and 7. Luke and I often tend toward the 4:50 side of things, though he’s started sleeping later and I still find myself crashing into consciousness with that inescapable pregnant urge to empty my bladder and fast. Attempts to stay sleepy are often in vain, so I stumble through the dark to a tiny red light indicating hot coffee pre-set the night before. Four generous scoops of McCafe shake me from my stupor and I pull back the curtains so as to not miss the sunrise. My Bible plan lately is Leviticus, so I strive to savor Christ amid priestly diagnoses of skin disease. Two chapters and a prayer, and the baby awakes.

On many mornings we snuggle for 5-40 minutes, depending on how early he went to bed the night before. I’m trying to practice the profound art of simply staring into his eyes, something Theo of Golden might suggest if he were real. Before long, he squirms out of my arms to his book pile, bringing me rigorous texts about the moon, backhoes, a llama in pajamas, and a humble blue truck who knows the power of friendship. We read until Dad awakes, pausing only to refill the milk cup or race to the window in pursuit of that airplane flying far overhead.

Breakfast is some sort of cottage cheese concoction, ideally mixed with grapes or berries but occasionally blessed with banana bread from an artisan’s exchange the weekend before. A mandatory bath follows without exception.

The next several hours hold any possible combinations of Luke and I walking alone, walking with friends, walking alone to go see friends, a playdate, a park date, a lunch date, or simply peering over the neighbor’s fence to see their two dogs, Cash and Rocco. Luke will point emphatically with a deep-throated growl as if to summon the portly pups, but the moment they come close, he clings to my neck for dear life. His instinctive fear of canine closeness is nothing I dismiss, as it prevents the possibility that he will one day ask for a dog.

Soon his precious blue eyes are rimmed with rosy redness and we rush inside for respite — for him, a nap, and for me, an hour to live out my wildest dreams (laundry, dinner prep, a shower on occasion). I sometimes sit to watch his belly rise and fall before racing to the next chore or checklist item.

When he awakes, we eat lunch, find more planes, water the plants, and practice pairing every farm animal with the sound they make, though it has dawned on me that this is a comically non-essential skill for everyday life. Joe returns from work and Luke squeals with delight, knowing he is now in the presence of a human rollercoaster who will toss him, spin him, and fling him upside down. The part of the day I’ve dreaded most — making dinner — is now here, and I downplay my discouragement as I serve spaghetti or tacos for the 470th week in a row.

Family Bible Time is next, and we stifle laughs as chicken fingers sail through the sky to the tune of Kevin DeYoung’s retelling of Esther. Cleanup, quick walk, and a bit of what we call survival-mode screen time, where we slump in front of the TV, halfheartedly tossing a ball or reading a book but mostly all just trying to make it to seven. Joe and I try to surprise each other during the eleven millionth reading of Goodnight, Moon, throwing in our own rhymes or taunting one another with a “bowl full of muck,” as if the old lady might, today, whisper… shucks.

On good days Joe and I use the rest of the evening for fireside chats, Scrabble, a show side by side. On most days, we crumple onto the couch and mindlessly scroll, surf the internet, and click through shows ’til our eyelids grow heavy and the first sleeper goes. Most nights, it’s him. A prayer is whispered by whoever’s most conscious, then it’s blissful slumber until somewhere between 4:50 and 7 again.

Nothing miserable, nothing magical. Just a million tiny puzzle pieces in the jigsaw of our days. When it all comes together, I think we’ll look back and say, “What a simple, beautiful, wonderful life.” I want less of trying to make a name for myself and more seeking to honor God as I clean up cottage cheese and race my boy to the window to spot airplanes overhead. Ordinary moments, but I wouldn’t want to be anywhere instead.