rainy days
Day two of rain, although it has slackened so I can now see the sky. It’s the color of snow, but we won’t get any; the temperature has risen to the fifties. I hear the sound of water everywhere: the dishwasher humming, tires splashing through puddles on the street, hot water dripping through fresh coffee grinds in a new pourover, the washing machine churning. Outside is soggy, gray, and unfriendly. Inside is warm but cluttered with toys and sprinkled with dead frasier fir needles that still, a month post-Christmas, have evaded the dustpan.
Today is the right day to stay indoors. To hunker down with a second cup of coffee and, in my case, also a mug of tea. A day for snuggling on the sofa and reading new books, for riding the Peloton, for sitting down while the kids happily color (or while they play with electrical tape, scissors, and toilet paper. Who needs toys when you have access to all the drawers in the kitchen?).
But I can’t sit down.
I need to stand. I need to go up and down the stairs: there’s laundry to be done, carpets to be vacuumed (but only because I knocked a houseplant onto the floor and have yet to suck up the mess), toys to be organized. I need to cook: there’s shrimp thawing in the fridge and you can’t let that linger, brussels sprouts softening, carrots going limp in the back. And there’s that cursed windowsill that keeps filling up with dead ants and I should probably clean it up, it’s more than a little gross.
It’s okay if I do none of these things. It’s okay if shreds of toilet paper, black electrical tape, tiny Legos, and Lite Brite bulbs are scattered over the carpet. It’s okay if the hamper isn’t empty. It’s okay if I haven’t yet peeled carrots or ripped the wilted outer leaves off the sprouts. (I will definitely cook the shrimp, though).
It doesn’t feel okay. I don’t know how to let myself rest. I say it will come on Saturday with the Sabbath, but then Saturday rolls around and all I know to do is say “no laundry, no dishes.” And that’s good, that’s a start, at least I’m stopping something. But there’s something I haven’t started. There’s something I keep forgetting. My life, even stuck indoors on a rainy gray Tuesday, is meant to be offered up. I can worship the Lord in the middle of the week, as my son crawls into my lap to do school, when we have no social engagements. I can worship without hosting anyone at our home. I can worship without accomplishing tasks. Those aren’t synonymous. But there is an element of worship that I keep missing, and I think it is this: I can be still.
I feel guilty about taking a day and not running around. I feel wrong. But what has God actually called me to? It is not to rush. It is not to check off the tasks on my to-do lists and delete the calendar reminders on my phone (back up for the hand-written lists in case I lose them, of course).
Jesus napped on a boat. Jesus retreated. Jesus went to the mountain, to the garden, to the wilderness. Jesus was not constantly active. And sometimes I hesitate to look at Jesus as a model for something I ought to do, because I think that misses the point. He is not just an example, he is the Way. He is the incarnate God. He is the forever and only prophet, priest, and king. He reigns and he rescues. Our life is in him, and he abides in us. This is far greater than an old WWJD bracelet.
But in this, I think, I do myself a disservice not to look at the actual life Jesus lived. He was God, and he still napped. Savior of the world, and he still made time for silence and solitude.
Why do I not do the same?
The short answer: it doesn’t feel as good, as fast. Maybe housework is not a pleasure, and maybe it isn’t a sin. But it does something for me. Checking a box satisfies me. Cooking a meal makes me feel like I’ve served my family, even if I’ve been rude to my husband and impatient with my children. Cleaning is no joy of mine, which is why it is so hard to see it as a twisted kind of pleasure.
Silence, solitude, and rest do not please me in the same way. There is no box to check. Nothing to look around and see I did that, at least. Or, finally, that’s crossed off and not carried on to the next day’s chores. These three things require a lot more intention and grit than sweeping the floor or combing the knots from my daughter’s hair.
But when I pause, when I heat up the lavender-scented rice neck wrap and force myself to sit down, I realize something I miss otherwise: I’m thankful. I’m thankful that today, there is no homeschool co-op, no small group, no playdates. No grocery store runs, no dashes to Tractor Supply for chicken feed, no need to head to a playground. I’m thankful that today is a day meant for lounging, drinking something hot out of a real mug I’ll have time to hand wash, and reading. I’m thankful my kids can spend so long entertaining themselves with a roll of TP and stolen tape. I’m thankful to give up trying to absorb the teensiest amount of vitamin D, because on a day like today, I’d rather crawl back in bed, with the weighted blanket my brother gave me for Christmas, and cram all the pillows behind my creaking back and actually take the time to pay attention to the Martyn Lloyd-Jones book I’m making my way through.
I think the best way to worship, on a day like today, is to say thank you. Not look what I can do. Not help me find the time for this or help me not forget that. But thank you. I needed a moment to sit. I needed a day to recover. I’m going to take the gift and savor it.
I know you can’t earn salvation through working hard. But I do forget that I can’t effect my sanctification, either.
