In the Chaos

When I was a young mommy, I followed a woman online called The Fly Lady. I don’t know if she’s still around. But she was one of those wise people who taught young women how to manage their days. How to organize their households. How to get through the whirling chaos that comes with infants and toddlers and home life in those early years. Her advice was simple. Start with the kitchen sink. Just the kitchen sink. Begin there. Wash the dishes. Scrub the basin. Bleach it. Dry it until it shines.

Well, that’s fine. That’s easy. But what about the rest of my house? What about the scattered toys? The clogged toilet? The muddy carpet? What about the sleepless nights? The cranky husband? The crying baby? What about all those things I don’t know how to manage? What about those?

Just start with the sink. Clean the sink.

I think in my younger years I understood part of the truth. The practical side. I realized that in the midst of the craziness, I could manage cleaning the sink. It was a small part I could take some control over. I could do that. I would be able to claim a tiny part of my world. Accomplish something, even small. And move on from there. Like eating an elephant one bite at a time. It was a small bite, but it helped me begin the climb.   

But as I stand here at my kitchen sink thirty years late, I think about The Fly Lady. And I realize maybe I didn’t understand the deeper meaning of her lesson—maybe she didn’t either. And maybe her advice wasn’t just about managing a household. Because today, my first grand baby of six months old lies in a hospital bed after a terrible fall. We’re waiting for news from the neurosurgeon and neurologist. For the 4-hour MRI results. For the seizures to stop. For him to open his eyes and be normal again. For some tiny control over our shattered lives.

And all I can do is stand at the kitchen sink. I stand and I weep.

What about the living room where his toys are? What about Christmas and his presents under the tree? What about all the what-ifs and should-haves that torture my mind? Where do I go when all around me is a reminder that just days ago, moments ago, we celebrated and laughed and planned, never knowing the tragedy right around the corner? What do I do with that, Lord?

And through blurry tears, I wash one fork.

One single fork.

Because that’s about all I can do.

The pain and the chaos is too great.

And thinking about anything else will bring me crashing down.

So, I scrub the fork. And then a bowl. I wash them, dry them, and put them away.

But in this moment, I understand the Fly Lady’s lesson a little bit deeper. And give it eternal breath. Because maybe it’s not so much about managing my household, but managing my soul. Because I can do the next right thing. I can take the tiniest step, the smallest part. I can do that. I can wash the dishes. Dry the sink. Fold the towel. Cry the tears.

But I can’t calm the waters.

I can’t silence the storm.

Only Jesus can do that.

In this empty, fragile, chaotic place, only He can sustain me.

And in that quiet space alone at the kitchen sink, that still moment when the warm water washes over my hands and I take up that next fork, I find just a sliver of courage, a moment of victory, to give it back to Him.

The End

The fight was nearing its end. And we were losing.

For six months, we had been in the hospital. In the NICU. Christmas was just around the corner. Snow fell on Morristown square. And baby Meagan had undergone a surgery as a last-ditch effort to save her life. But the surgery had failed. She was on maximum life support, and the doctors had come to the end of their abilities. They ushered us into their office and told us they could do nothing more for her. That Meagan would not make it through the weekend. They wanted us to prepare for the worst. The worst. Imminent death. The loss of our child.

The fight was nearing its end. And we were losing.

My life was out of control. So, I tried to find some control wherever I could. I fixated on the machines and found hope in small increments of change, then defeat in the reverse. I studied the schedule of doctors and nurses, hoping for the ones that would bring life, those who became our favorites and our forever friends. I took notes on the medications, the doses, the ups and downs of her progress searching for some pattern, some upward change for the better. Anything to hold on to. But it was fleeting. Control was a façade. I had none.

As I drove to the hospital one morning over that dreaded weekend that I thought would be our last, I turned to my mom and said, “I need to pray something. Something I haven’t been able to pray. Until now. Would that be okay?” And I began…

Lord Jesus, I understand the truth now. I understand that she is your little lamb. And that You love her even more than I do. As her mommy, this is so hard for me, because I love her with everything in me... everything I am. But You… You love her even more. And because of that, I give her to You, Jesus. I trust her into your hands. She is yours. And whatever happens with her… if You choose to take her, or let her stay… I trust You. I let go…

The hands opened. The one's clutching everything I held dear. Opened in abandoned trust for a love so much greater. The tears poured down my face. Healing tears. Trusting tears. For I was not in control... but He was. He who loved her... and loved me... even more.

When I got to the hospital and sat at her bedside, everything had changed. Well, it was all the same, but I saw it differently. It no longer mattered what the machines said. What the noise said. It didn’t matter what doctor was on call, or what nurse was treating her. It didn’t matter that all things pointed to death. Oblivious to the swirling chaos, I sat with her... I held her little hand in mine and sang.

A few days later, on Christmas Eve—many said that was significant, that it was Christmas Eve, but it wasn’t the night. It was Him—Jesus healed her. And He had the power to do it on any night.

A few short weeks later, my baby came home. But it could have gone either way. We never know. Because the outcome isn’t ours to give. And the peace that I received in the storm—that peace that passes all understanding—it wasn’t in the results, it was in the surrender.

If you, my friend, are in a place of suffering today, sorrow that feels so out of control. If you are struggling to find purpose in the pain, joy in the heartache, I tell you this from the depths of my heart: He loves you even more... even more than you could ever fathom.

And I'll tell you this...

As much as I would never want to relive one moment, one day in the NICU… when my soul, my very being, broke so completely…

I never walked closer with Jesus than in those very hours.