The Fight

I barely recognized the woman in the mirror this morning. She looked battered from the night before- actually, from the past seven nights, but who’s counting? Grungy and grumpy, weary and weak, she looked as if she’s been living in a cave for a week. And if she’d been able to speak before her first cup of coffee kicked in, she might have argued that in a sense, she has been.

There’s nothing like a houseful of sick kids to reduce a vibrant woman to a tattered vessel- seven days of rocking fever-wracked bodies, seven nights of quieting miserable moans, seven hours of darkness between bedtime and rising, seven hours of rising from half-sleep over and over again to console cries, dispense Tylenol and change bed sheets by the light of the moon.  Seven days of survival.

Seven days is just long enough to strip a sick child’s bed a dozen times and strip my sense of humor in the process. It is just long enough for the kitchen cupboards to grow empty and the laundry baskets to overflow. It is just long enough for life to mount into messy piles and motivation to spiral into caverns of apathy. Seven days, I’ve learned, is long enough to dim those”Hawaiian eyes” (see post on 10/26). Or “gut-kick” my character, as author Patricia Raybon would say:

“Mundane life just gut-kicks character. At those moments when I want to be grand, expansive, noble, deep, generous, beautiful- life shows up.” I Told The Mountain to Move, page 140

As I shuffled to the coffeepot this morning, I tripped over the night’s battle zone of pulled sheets and soiled pajamas that littered the hallway. Red-eyed and blurry, I tried to recall my state of mind just two weeks prior. Though it seems like a dream from a past lifetime, fourteen days ago, I had awaken to the wonder of an ocean sunrise. Dawn had arrived with wonder. Gratitude had infused my soul.

“Why can’t I hang on to a little of that refreshment?” I asked the Lord as my barefeet stuck to my dirty kitchen floor. “Why did You fill my soul only to send me back to a fast and furious drain?” I complained.

I hadn’t really expected an answer. The One who spoke the stars into place doesn’t owe me any kind of explanations. But as I settled into my quiet time chair with my steaming cup of java and my Bible, the Lord answered, “So you would know it’s worth fighting for.”

“What is?”

“Joy. Peace. Fullness. ME.”

 The strange response stuck in my head as I held a cool wash cloth on my feverish preschooler. It mingled with my  to-do’s as I scoured the cupboards for mealtime ingredients and folded loads of laundry. And oddly enough, it began to take root as I read Dinotrucks to my flushed and fatigued son for the fifteenth time this afternoon. I inhaled the sweaty scent of his matted hair, felt his bony back pressing against my chest, listened to his belabored breathing as he coughed and sniffed, and instead of grumbling, I breathed a quiet, “thank you.”

“Thank you, Lord, for this child I am holding. Thank you for the quiet of this moment, for the gift of napping baby and the sunshine pouring through the window. Thank you for the savory smell of chicken noodle soup wafting from my crock pot, for the chicken I found in the freezer and the frozen noodles I spotted beneath that bag of broccoli and the long forgotten can of chicken broth that I don’t remember buying. Thank you for a husband who ran to the grocery store at ten o’ clock last night so we could have fresh fruit and eggs, more diapers and baby wipes. Thank you for Your arms that are holding me….”  My mental grumbles grew still. My gut-kicked character kicked back.

I began to fight.

My quiet punches did not open the floodgates for joy nor revitalize my zapped energy. They did not alleviate my exhaustion nor set free the muse inside of my soul, but as I stepped into the boxing ring, my Hawaiian eyes opened just a crack–wide enough to see the simple truth. On some days joy is placed on my doorstep like a brightly wrapped package. It surprises me and delights me. It’s like a vacation in Hawaii, a barefoot stroll along a white sands beach. It’s an unexpected gift straight from my Father’s hand.

 But on other days, joy is more like a hard-won trophy in a boxing match. It requires determination and focus, a little gusto and pain. It’s the tender touch of my husband when I slip back into bed after rocking the baby at 2 A.M. It’s the warmth of slender fingers curled around mine as I cuddle with my three-year-old on the couch.  It’s a Bible verse that reminds me “When I am weak, He is strong.” It is the result of seeking and believing I will find. Joy comes in many packages.  But it is ALWAYS a prize worth fighting for.

I’m headed to bed now. The restless whimpers of my tossing toddler have already begun. I’m not sure what the night will hold, but I’m confident of this. When I wake in the morning, I’ll be grabbing my boxing gloves.

The Overflow:   “Fight the good fight of the faith. Take hold of the eternal life to which you were called… ” -1 Timothy 6:12