Recently I’ve been finding something so cheering in looking at a clothes line pinned with row after row of clean white diapers. Or, at the end of the day when the kids have been tucked in bed, I find myself taking a moment to just stare contentedly at my counter lined with jars of fresh yogurt that after a day of incubating are ready to be put in the fridge.It probably has something to do with my longing, like that of every mother of young children, to have something to show for all my effort at the end of the day. Because most days, allthough I’ve been working from 5:00 am until long after dark, I find it hard to point back to any physical evidence of the things I’ve poured myself into.
How do I measure what I do every day? If I spend an hour making “cakes” and pizzas” with my boys, in the end we squish it all up and put the play dough back in their tubs. And although you can’t tell when you walk in the door, I actually did spend an hour picking up toys and strewn laundry and even did a spot of cleaning today! I made three square meals from “scratch” and even a batch of cookies but you won’t find the results stacked in my fridge, freezer, or pantry. Somehow… mysteriously…they are already gone! And how do you really measure all the patience it took to brush the teeth of a two-year-old who thinks he can do everything himself, or answer a four-year-old’s question (for the fifth time that day) about why it rains, or spoon feed a babbling, daydreaming ten-month-old baby a mashed banana as she occasionally swats at the food?
Having children and moving to Africa has required a huge shift in how I define my “accomplishments”. As a missionary I long to spend more time in concentrated language and culture study and would love to spend an hour reading the Bible with my friend who is so eager to hear the words of God. But I’m learning to be content with spending a few moments laughing with my neighbor over my sons’s attempt to communicate in Portuguese and appreciating the teachable moment with my house helper when we talk about life while we wash the clothes. Even the simple act of being a gracious host looks different now—sometimes I wistfully remember putting together a five course meal, lighting candles, and inviting some friends over for a relaxing evening…but I’m learning to be content with serving a cup of tea to a Mozambican friend who unexpectedly stops by while I’m in the middle of cooking dinner and as our kids run circles around us. And slowly, I’m learning to not place so much stock in checking off the items on my (according to my husband) “never ending” To Do List; rather, to be more in tune to the Spirit’s whisper to set down my bucket and pick up my baby and kiss her…to stop writing that e-mail and give my son my full attention while I explain to him ONE MORE TIME why it’s raining…or to run shrieking around the house as a little “crocodile” chases me.
None of that can really be measured and sometimes I don’t think I’ll see the results for literally years. And some days, although I’m becoming less and less focused on "accomplishments”, I’d still like to see something finished by the time a climb into bed. That’s where those (admittedly odd, but) peaceful moments of staring at yogurt jars in the quiet of the day come in. In a few short hours, the diapers will be dirty again and filling up the buckets. And the yogurt will be in little tummies with the dirty jars waiting to be washed. But for a few sweet and cheering moments, I see the evidence of my work.
