This is for when the day has been a bit long and your patience has been a bit short. When you find yourself saying things like Don’t Make Me Come Down There and Stop Touching Each Other and Because I Said So, That’s Why.
It’s for when you forgot to eat breakfast and so you ate the crusts of peanut butter toast left over. It’s for when you are in the time between being finished with writing your first book and the actual release of it, and you are pretty sure everyone will hate it, in fact, you kind of hate it now, too.
It’s for when you miss sleeping in and staying out. It’s for when you wonder what your life is for, exactly. It’s for wanting to run away to live in a library in Paris, eating nothing but bread and cheese and apples for the rest of your life, washed down with wine; maybe you’ll get a few chickens, but you’re out of coffee.
It’s for when you stay up too late just because you are so happy to have a quiet house.It’s for another night of grilled cheese and tomato soup for supper. It’s for the days when you are not so much “balancing” motherhood and work and life and family as you are juggling it all like flaming torches.
It’s for unfolded laundry and unrealised dreams.
This is for the days when you aren’t so much soaring like an eagle as you are plodding one foot in front of the other like a tired workhorse. This is for the days when it’s less grand and epic story and more of a “long obedience in the same direction” like Eugene Peterson said.
This is for the daily and holy unappreciated work. This is for what Madeline L’Engle called “the tired thirties.”