In the peace of Saturday afternoon, duties are hallowed with a mercy of quiet solitude. It feels like a month since I was home, in the little yellow kitchen in the little yellow house. And it feels longer since I enjoyed basic, simple domesticity.
Life churns out the days, the cycles of sleep, rising, exercise, eating, working, and coming home again. Sometimes the drum seems so loud that I cannot hear the song it undergirds.
But that’s not life’s fault. It cannot be blamed on circumstance or setting or situation. No, if I can’t hear the music it’s because I’m trying to make up my own song. I’m taking the rhythm and imagining the melody I’d like to hear. Trouble is, the song does not sustain me, because it’s not a life song. It’s a “someday” song, not a “now” melody.
Is it any wonder that life can seem tiresome, when it’s not really life that is tiring, but me that is tired?
And why would I be tired? It’s because I’m not listening for His song above the drumming. This stress is unnecessary, it comes from overworking for an unneeded continuity. God has already given everything I need for life and godliness.
Re-inventing the wheel proves futile at best, iniquity and idolatry at its worst.
Because what is re-inventing the wheel but insisting that I have a better idea? Why does something perfect need improving? Stress comes because I want to be needed, want to feel important, want to work myself into the hub, even if it means flitting and buzzing and bouncing all over creation to make myself useful.
I was not made chiefly to labour. I was made to worship God.
And Kristen Getty’s haunting voice streams through the pot’s vapour and knife’s thud, and mixer’s whir:
Still my soul be still
And do not fear
Though winds of change may rage tomorrow
God is at your side
No longer dread
The fires of unexpected sorrow
God You are my God
And I will trust in You and not be shaken
Lord of peace renew
A steadfast spirit within me
To rest in You alone
Here is His song:
He is God.
He is good.
I am His.
