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 Shadows Call

There have been many different creative expressions in my life. From quilting to scrap-booking. Painting to pastels. From writing one poem (and only one) to a 400-page novel.

I think there are life lessons hidden in each one if I were to look hard enough. But the one that stands out to me the most comes from a very, very brief stint with watercolors. I hated them in high school and I still hated them when my mom (an amazing watercolorist) suggested we paint together. A bonding time. Mother-daughter. How could I refuse?

I worked on the painting for days … then weeks. I threw it away and drew it back out of the trash. Then, threw it away again. It was awful. But it was awful, not because it was truly bad, but because I couldn’t see the finished piece. And here’s why…

If you’ve ever painted at all, you know that with oils and acrylics, you can pick a spot on your canvas and paint exactly how you see something—with all its shadows and highlights, right from the start. All its depths and heights. But not in watercolors. With that medium, you start with your lightest wash and build up layer after layer after painstaking layer.

And the lesson … it’s impossible to see depth without shadow.

The painting was flat and lifeless until the very end. I couldn’t see it. Not at first. Not until the final brushes of the darkest layer. And then, and only then, did the painting reveal itself. When the brush strokes of shadow went deeper and brought out the contours of the image, the painting had life. Real, authentic life.

I didn’t realize it then, but I have determined it since. That watercolors are a lot like real life.

When my first child was born two months early at 2 ½ pounds and we fought for her life for six months in the NICU the Lord said, “Call upon Me in the day of trouble. I will deliver you and you will glorify Me” (Psalm 50:15). All of His promises were right there. He was all I had to hold onto. And I clung with all my might.

The brush stroke of shadow contoured my life, and I went deeper.

When the Lord called us out on the mission field to the desert of Mexico, I left my home, my family, my friends, my language, my country. Everything that grounded me. The Lord said, “See I am doing a new thing. Now it springs up. Do you not perceive it? I am making rivers in the desert, streams in the wasteland to bring drink to my people … that they would praise my name” (Isaiah 43:18-21). He called. I followed in obedience because I knew there was no greater, no safer, no better calculated place to be, then in the center of His will.

And I went deeper.

When I was diagnosed with colon cancer at 42 years old, my doctor said if it had moved to my liver, I would have six weeks to live. Six weeks. “Indeed we had the sentence of death within ourselves in order that we should not trust in ourselves, but in God who raises the dead; who delivered us from so great a peril of death, and will deliver us. He on whom we have set our hope” (2 Corinthians 1:9-11). Ten years later, I remain cancer free. But in that trial, in that moment of staring death in the face, I knew where my hope came from.

The shadow deepened and the girl grew in faith.

You see, with every brush stroke of our lives, every high and every low, every highlight and every shadow, we have the opportunity to go deeper. To experience the grace of God more fully. More completely.

My friend, if you are in a shadow of life, know this for certain:

And remember … remember this most of all … It’s not easy to see the Master’s work of art because it is not finished. There may still be shadows and contours to reveal in the greater masterpiece.