Always Behind

I just went to the kitchen to get the glass of water I always keep beside the bed so I can drink it first thing in the morning. There is a sink-full of dishes there, with more on the counter. They are dirty. But they wouldn’t fit into the dishwasher, which is currently, loudly, rumbling through its wash cycle. I have almost a whole second load there. I should have washed them by hand. But I didn’t. There were still children calling me for some little something (nothing) long after “bedtime” was declared. There was some work I was hoping to get done, but now I’m too tired. There’s the ironing draped over the back of the couch…still waiting after days. Laundry unfolded. Clutter still stacked. Floors still unswept.

Those dishes are a too-real symbol of my days. No matter how much I fit into the “got-it-done” file, there is still more to do. And not just more. A whole sink full of more. And some on the counter, too.

It’s not overwhelmed I’m feeling tonight. Just tired. Tired of the mess. Tired of always feeling behind. Tired of fielding a hundred messages every day from my crazies of all the things I forgot, missed, didn’t get done, or got done late. The son who melted down because I couldn’t stop to snuggle with him right.that.second because his sisters were still needing to get in the bath and his baby brother was already there, needing to be washed. Alex was loud in expressing my neglect. The dishes do it silently.

And I long for affirmation. That these moments matter. That I am loved, despite my constant failures. That my inability to maintain a budget or get dinner on the table on time or keep up with the laundry doesn’t define me. I need words. From someone. From Someone. I need hope. And grace. And help. And kindnesses. And fun. I used to be fun. I wish I was fun again. I need friends. I wish I didn’t feel like I was fighting so many things alone.

And I doubt that I am alone. I am certain I am not. It’s just not something we much talk about with “people.” It’s not something I talk about much, which probably doesn’t help much.

Still, the dishes are there. And somewhere in the crazy, I’m waiting, hoping to see God show up. With joy. With comfort. With affirmation. Thank you, Jesus, for always showing up, even if I still have dirty dishes in the sink.

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