It's winter which means that it's pitch dark outside by suppertime. I'm looking out the window above my kitchen sink but all I see is my own tired reflection and a warmly lit room behind me.
The kitchen is a disaster after a day of Christmas baking and pot roast. When I take a step, I end up with crumbs stuck to my feet. The oldest has been feverish with strep throat and the youngest is determined to be everywhere he is not supposed to be. I chase everyone downstairs because the gift is to clean my kitchen up alone sometimes.
I'm humming quietly under my breath, working in the light of the Christmas tree and candles, straightening and picking up, cleaning and wiping, sweeping and setting to rights, restoring the home. I've spent the day doing laundry (there are few things I despise as much as the drudgery of laundry) and cooking. I've spent the day administering medicine and organising naps. I've tried to return important emails for my work because we need to fundraise but my head isn't there by this time of day, even though my heart is.
Sometimes I don't feel swept up in a grand love story. I feel like I am underestimated. I feel like all I do is pick up. The day feels long. I feel misunderstood. I play second fiddle.
I have prayed for the big words. For the best nouns to be at work in my life - words like peace and goodness and generosity and love and joy. And I have prayed that my life would be an expression of the best verbs - forgiving, loving, peace-giving, joyful living.
Then I miss it, walk right by, disregard it when those prayers are answered.
It's in the tiniest of moments, easy to miss like snowflakes.
But the moments are creating an avalanche.
I don't recognise that this -
the greatest act of service of my life,
this having and being a tightly knit family together -
is the biggest noun and
the biggest verb of my life so far.
