Dusting or Resting

My coffee cup sits steaming on the kitchen table in front of me, reheated in the microwave for the third time since 9 a.m.  I lean in close to hear a seven-year-old read the part of the story where the Boxcar Children are reunited with their Grandfather.  His monotone, slightly-halting cadence is soft and steady, but he stumbles on fewer words these days.  He's learning fast.

To my right in the family room, a young percussionist is practicing pages 9 and 10 from his band book on the xylophone-like bells.  His audience is the ever-attentive puppy, who is sitting in her crate gnawing on a rawhide bone with little puppy teeth.  I hear the boy keeping time under his breath as his head bobs up and down and his hands tap with the green-tipped mallets.

"One, two, three, four, rest, rest, rest, rest."

Behind me in the dining room-- an altogether different sound.  A beginning baritone player is trying to figure out how much air needs to go down the mouthpiece in order to get an F instead of a B flat.  Warbled notes and multiple tones are slowly beginning to give way to sounds that are more musical, and he's doing his best to work his way through pages 9 and 10 too.

"Boom, boom, (warbly) boom, boom, rest, rest, rest, rest."

Upstairs I can hear a girl on a flute, probably sitting on the toy chest at the end of her bed with a music stand in front of her.  She's fluting away on a B flat scale and trying to hold a note for ten counts today, because yesterday she could hold it for nine.  One more count a day is her goal.  Last week she could only hold it for four, but the band director knows a girl that can hold it for twenty-one, so the blowing and breathing and practice continues.

"Toot, toot, toot, toot, rest, rest, rest, rest."

This indoor cacophany-- this blowing and tooting and tapping and huffing and puffing and reading-- all melds together as I gaze out the window on a gorgeous fall day.  The leaves are blazing gold and red, fluttering their way to the ground in the sunshine, making their own kind of music.

"Flutter, flutter, flutter, flutter, rest, rest, rest, rest."

But then this melody of sound and movement and practicing and resting goes quickly out of tune as I gaze around the kitchen.  Every pot I own is in the sink, waiting to be washed.  Library books, school books, and shoes clutter my view.  The couch is covered with laundry waiting to be folded.  Up on my bed, there is a pile of unmatched socks.  Did I even make the bed this morning?  An epic battle of Axis and Allies between dad and boys is ongoing on the dining room table, waiting for dad to get home from work.  A little bag of popcorn from last night's snack sits on the counter, along with the mail and the ads and the last couple of jalapenos from our garden.  And the dust.  All that dust.  Isn't company coming today?  And piano students? How do I get that dusting done?  What about the bathrooms, and the mopping, and the laundry, and the academics?"

And the cadence of my heart is very different now.  How do I ever keep up with all of these things?

"Teach, cook, wash, clean, stressed, stressed, stressed, stressed."

The booming and puffing and tapping and reading continue, and in my heart there is this banging and clanging and dissonance.

Next to me, I hear the next sentence, read by a small boy oblivious to all of the other noise.

Ah, but then the Conductor of the universe breaks through the noise in my heart and reminds me again of the words that brought life and melody out of the chaos just this morning.

"For He knows our frame.  He remembers that we are dust." Ps. 103: 14

The Composer of life and music and golden leaves doesn't just know I'm dust.  He remembers.  Knowing and remembering are two altogether different things.  Knowing is important, but remembering is active and conscious and gives way to life and grace and help.

And I suppose that if Almighty God, maker of Heaven and Earth has dust, maybe it's ok that I have some too.  Maybe the never-ending dust glorifies God by reminding me that I am just dust too-- that I am so dependent on Him for everything, and that I can't do this mammoth job of mothering without His help.

Oh, but He knows.  He remembers.  He remembers that I am just weak and frail with a heart easily stressed.  He tells me that His power is made perfect in my weakness.  That promise changes everything, doesn't it?

My gaze falls back on my steaming coffee cup.  I look around at my children, engaged in their little lives and activities, happily making noise and messes, mistakes and music.  And God lovingly gazes down on His daughter, engaged in life and activities, making noise and messes, mistakes and music.

The minor melody in my heart a few minutes ago has given way to an altogether different tune.

"He knows, He remembers, He knows, He remembers....

Rest, rest, rest, rest."