Today is Monday and I want to run away. I am overwhelmed by what I didn’t get done last week and by what I need to do this week. I’ve made lists. I’ve even made lists of lists. They haunt me. I’ve organized and de-cluttered and simplified. Yet, I am overwhelmed.
I sit in the blue chair in the corner. I try to read. Too distracted. I look at Twitter and Facebook. Too boring. I try to finish the third cup of coffee. Too cold.
I listen to teens chatter throughout the house. They talk and laugh and make plans for sleepovers and workouts and swimming. One announces he’ll be spending next summer on the west coast and the Rocky Mountains. Really? “How will you be funding that?” I think to myself. I realize I am momentarily resentful of their carefree life and big dreams. “I have real worries,” I think to myself. “Like girls going to sleepovers and boys who want to spend next summer on the west coast.”
She comes to my room chattering about kittens and brothers, as she lies down on my un-made bed. She notices how soft and cozy and firm it feels. “I love beds like this,” she says. I recall nights on the old slip-covered couch because the soft-cozy-firm bed is like concrete to my sleepless self. I mention that to her and she responds with, “I’m sorry, Mommy, why haven’t you ever told me that before.” I say nothing.
I think of all the things I’ve never told her. All those Monday morning thoughts and fears that would mar her freckled, carefree life. Too soon she will know. She has a thought and skips out of the room.
The Blue Chair
I sit in the blue chair feeling the breeze from the fan. It’s hot in here and I don’t want to get up. I don’t want to do anything, really. My thoughts, unleashed, wander. What can I do that would make me feel better? Eat the home-made ice-cream in the freezer with leftover birthday cake? Where can I run to feel better? The mall? My favorite thrift store? The coffee shop?
Then I hear His Word in my heart.
“Come to me all you who are weary and burdened and I will give you rest.”
Oh! How my flesh-walking self wants to run away and hide and put on the fig leaves that promise “feel better”. But they only leave me naked–exposed in the wilderness I’ve created right in the middle of the paradise He has provided.
Run to Him. The Monday morning feeling has the same cure as the feeling I had so many years ago. Run to Him.
And so I do.
I’m still in the blue chair in the corner.
But I run to Him. I hang up the phone with one speaking of a terminal illness and numbered days and I run to Him. I move clothes from washer to dryer and I run to Him. I look at the calendar and the list and I run to Him.
“Come—Run—to me all you who are weary and burdened and I will give you rest.” Matthew 11:28.
And so I do.