Windows of Rest

And here we are suddenly, poised at the brink of another spray season, ready to tumble headlong into a cavern of busyness.

I don’t feel prepared for this season, even though I’ve baked gallons of granola for the freezer and even though I’ve cleaned bedrooms and planned the initial meals.

I wonder if I’ll ever have a spray season for which I’ll feel prepared.

I imagine what that might feel like, how unharried and calm I would be as people would arrive. Their beds would all be made with color-coordinating sheets, little chocolates on each pillowcase, informing them that, though they are family because they live with us for a tenth of the year, they are also valued guests and employees.

I have a few stale Swiss cookies yet. Would those work for pillow-chocolates?

“Don’t worry about cleaning his room,” one wife told me when her husband came this Monday–a few weeks before season begins and she joins him. “And it wouldn’t kill him to make his own bed.”

No, it surely wouldn’t kill him, but I wonder if she knows that their attic bedroom turns into a bug graveyard during off-season. And if he arrives at 10:30 in the evening, wouldn’t it just be nice for him to crawl into an already-made bed instead of feeling like his arrival was unexpected?

So I sweep. And I wash sheets. And I make beds. And I count beds to make sure everyone has a place to sleep. And then I recount beds. And I lay pillows and sheets by the stairs to take up when I next go that way. And I wonder why the vacuum has no suction–until I see just how full of bug skeletons and hair and dust it’s gotten. So I clean out the vacuum and wash the filter (my vacuum has three filters, I have discovered. I wonder why so many). And then I go downstairs and think about food. I wash my dusty hands thoroughly and make pavlova for my hard-working husband who has too much responsibility resting on him right now. I take my little boy to the bank to deposit checks and drive half the way there with the windows wide open just because he loves the breeze.

I try to tidy my pottery stuff, but it would be awfully nice to finish my glaze firing before season, so I find myself quickly glazing mini flower pots and mugs and vases in the middle of this busyness so that I can do a final firing tomorrow.

It is amazing to me how much of a gift this feels–sitting down, brush in one hand and bisqueware in the other, quietly stroking on vivid red glaze that magically turns blue in the kiln. The act, surrounded by the craziness of preparing this home to expand for the needs of forty people, feels sacred, like God Himself planted the desire within me to finish this one last firing just so that I would take the time to sit still.

And then I look back at the morning and think about all the windows of rest He’s graciously given me in the middle of what should be the most hectic part of my life.

I think about that crisp page printed with the new toner I put in this morning. I think about that bank run with the windows open, Little Z happy to have the breeze in his face. I think about that short conversation through the bank drive-through with my favorite teller. I think about turning on the oven light and seeing the pavlova resting there, golden brown on top. I think about the satisfaction of finishing one of the attic rooms. I think about the unexpected happiness of Mr. N making it home in time for lunch. I think about yesterday evening and the golf cart ride we took as a family–the spontaneous black raspberry picking and chestnut tree weeding. I think about Little Z running around getting his pajamas filthy in the dusty field (because of course I thought we’d do a quick golf cart ride before bed, never imagining the excursion it would turn out to be). I think of him, smudged with black raspberry juice and dust, toddling through the field toward the golf cart when it was time to go back in.

In all these things, God is giving me rest and restoring my soul. I’m not really ready for this spray season, but I believe that God will continue to provide these windows of rest for me all through the busyness if I will open my eyes to see them.