House on the Rock

We woke up Monday morning with an overwhelming weight on our shoulders. We had just come off a jam-packed weekend complete with a baby sprinkle that we hosted, a four-year anniversary of the church we helped plant, and so much energy expended that we didn’t know how we could possibly have the strength for another day.

The previous week was full of non-stop brain-spinning. Buy snacks, decorate, deep clean, plan trivia game, make slideshow, entertain toddler, keep house clean while entertaining toddler, communicate rules for the cookie-bakeoff, read for small group, record podcast, celebrate grandma’s birthday, and do something about the long-surmounting laundry pile whispering taunts from the closet. All with previously scheduled commitments every night of the week. Needless to say, I was a monster.

But once we crossed the sprinkle off our schedule and the final chair at church was stacked and stowed away, we could breathe. Sort of. Or more accurately, we could shift our brain-spinning to other endeavors. Namely, having a baby. We still didn’t have much in the way of a nursery. Hardly any clothes, no diapers, nothing more than Luke’s leftovers wadded in a box we’d get to later. But it was later, and whether we were ready or not, it was time to start thinking about this daughter coming home.

Joe copes with his stress productively: waking up early and getting things done. I prefer, in this season, to burrow deep in puffy pillows and pretend the tasks will disappear. I stumbled out of bed groggily, burdened and never more desperate for rest, and groaned with some drama, “I cannot go on.”

Well aware that I am beyond rationality until I’ve had breakfast, my go-getter husband popped up to make pancakes. I came back to life with each blueberry bite, determined to start naming our tasks and getting to work.

But It wasn’t long before little Luke, with only weeks left in his siblingless life, stretched out yogurt-smeared hands and scrambled into my lap. As he nestled his head in the crook of my neck, I was overcome with guilt. And grief. And a God-given nudge to get out of the house.

“Or,” I said with a sigh, “We could go to the zoo.”

Joe and Luke lit up simultaneously, both far in favor of watching walruses than building bassinets. We hurriedly swept at syrup spots and hustled out the door. Suddenly, there wasn’t a single task that mattered more than this.

I’m well aware that sometimes you go to the zoo to simply watch 35 animals sleep, but this was not that day. We saw seals spin and swerve through underwater canyons while penguins plummeted to icy depths then popped up on their perch. We concealed our excitement as a hungry tiger tore a rabbit to shreds right in front of our eyes. Giraffes swayed, elephants sprayed, and we all “hoorayed!” when the dolphin hit the ball. But the unbridled joy of my sweet baby boy was the absolute very best part of it all.

The drive home was peaceful, sleepy and quiet, followed by naps and then dinner outside. Not a single thing on my to-do list was checked off, but the thing that mattered most did get done: I spent the day laughing with my husband and son.

There’s still so much to do as we prepare for this baby, and the list grows longer every time I awake. But yesterday showed me that a spotless house isn’t sweeter than sunkissed cheeks on a towheaded toddler who just had the best day of his life once again.

So now, may my list look a bit more like this: Dance in the kitchen / bake something sweet / run through the grass in just our bare feet / jump in the puddles / dance in the rain / race outside when we hear an airplane /

Go to the park / visit the zoo / say always and often how much I love you / take every walk / read every book / never be too busy for when he says, “look!” /

Sing in the car / throw him up high / buy all the snacks we’ve been wanting to try / Be okay with a little more splashing in the bath / soak in every moment / laugh, laugh, and laugh /