A Typical Day

I wake up about an hour before the rest of the house even dreams of awaking. On a good morning I'll have a two-hour head start, but that happens less and less frequently now that I sleep on the sofa in a room devoid of all timepieces, let alone one which pleasantly wakes you at an appointed hour. I pour a cup of coffee (often yesterday's) from the French press, add a bit of water (S. likes it stronger than I do), and heat for 1:11. Then its back to the couch where I read a chapter in With Christ in the School of Prayer, by Andrew Murray. I re-read the first paragraph a few times while the coffee kicks in, and slowly the radical truths about prayer and living in Christ and abiding in his word sink in. This is how I want to live - consistent with the faith I profess. I want to serve and pray for even those who despise me, those who make my life far more painful just by their presence. Her. I want to desire her growth and maturity as well as my own. I want to be there on the other side of all this having done my part to make it right.

Then the house stirs and is no longer my sanctuary. Girls speak rudely to each other as they brush their hair. Socks are scattered over the floor in search of matches. S. makes disparaging grunts at me because I am frustrated with the 6th grade boy who didn't finish his homework last night. She spends the morning getting ready for the gym; I make five lunches, serve breakfast, clean the kitchen and remind the children every 3 minutes to finish getting ready. Lunches packed? Planner signed? Shoes on? Bed made? Get it done! Now! She comes out and herds my sheep into the van for her 13 minutes of daily time with them, driving them to school. I finish picking up the messes and walk the twins to kindergarten. Any thoughts of her now make me shake my head and mutter some salty epitaph.

If there is any interaction with her in the afternoon it is typically short and text-book passive aggressive. "Would you mind just putting your dirty dishes and mugs in the dishwasher?" "Sure," she says. And leaves her cheese crusted nacho plate on the table.

I ask: "I'm going to need the van tomorrow. When would be a good time?" "When do you want it?" "I don't know. I don't have a tight schedule, just some errands I need to get done." "Well, when do you want it?" "Whenever its convenient for you, since you have a busier schedule than I do." "Just tell me when you need the van." "Ok...nine o'clock." "No. I won't be back from the gym by then."

Then the kids come home - the twins at two and the rest by four. She teaches a class in the evenings. It starts at six, but she leaves the house by 4:15, so she can walk and have more time to herself. Her total time with the kids doesn't exceed 20 minutes a day, and over half of that is the morning drive. They know she could drive to class in the evening and get there a bit later. That can't feel good. I cook dinner while they work on homework, play, beg to watch a movie. There is usually a tall glass of homebrewed beer at hand while the pan sizzles or the pot boils.

What happened to that hope and faith of the morning? It seems that daily such seeds are choked out by the weeds of selfish behaviour and unkindness. Maybe those are merely the fertilizer my flesh needs to gasp and choke, preferring to seethe rather than submit to Christ's work. I lay down exactly where I woke up and read, asking forgiveness for another day of failure, not just with regards to prayer and genuine love, mind you. I usually try to doze off before ten o'clock, which is when the back door creaks open and she walks in. One cannot feel abandoned and ignored in sleep.