Finding the Magic in the Mess.

It was April of 2020 when the peripheral pressures of the pandemic with its stay-at-home orders, distance learning, and perpetual fear-stoking news cycle finally did me in. Simultaneously—weeks of rain that kept us indoors.

After exhausting three other activities in the span of ten minutes, I asked my boys, “do you want to paint?”

Pre-pandemic Ruthie would have set easels up outside, with smocks, and individual paint cups.

Pandemic Ruthie taped together flattened cardboard boxes from Amazon subscribe & save deliveries until they covered the living room floor. Pandemic Ruthie filled muffin trays full of paint and didn’t bat an eye when stray color ended up on the white walls.

I didn’t even realize how tightly wound I had become. How freeing it felt to swirl globs of paint around on cardboard. How satisfying it was to make a mess.

The art was for them, but it was also for me. 

How many times have I thought that getting unstuck was about being more tidy, more pulled together, more curated when actually it was making a mess that reminded me to enjoy the process and hold the outcome loosely.

The boundaries of cardboard became our safe space to lean into the chaos, and in the mess we found the magic: Playfulness. Joy. Wonder. Freedom.

By grace, we’re not stuck.

Make a mess to release your creativity. Lay down perfect. Pick up playful.

Make a mess to find beauty in an unexpected place. Lay down expectations. Pick up wonder.

Make a mess as part of moving forward. Lay down control. Pick up freedom.

This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in this series "Make A Mess".

The Practice of Sabbath.

There’s a family video we’ve been watching on repeat lately. It’s a video of my now six-year old, Noah, when he was three, pretend-playing with a stool that’s turned over sideways. My boys are sitting in the stool like you’d sit in a car, and in the video, I’m saying, “Show me how you go fast!”

At my prompt, Noah looks at me, and in a singsong voice says, “It only goes slow, sorry.” He says sorry like he’s a game show host giving bad news to a contestant, and I am the unlucky participant. He repeats: “It only goes sloooow.”

Our family has made it a goal to be more intentional this year about the practice of Sabbath—a 24-hour time period of restful worship by which we cultivate a restful spirit in all of our life, defined by John Mark Comer in his How to Un-Hurry Workbook. When I think about how we approach Sabbath, I think about my son saying, It only goes slow, sorry. 

Sabbath invites us to slow. Slow our mental hamster wheel. Slow our busy hands. Slow our scroll (or stop it altogether, like a weekly digital detox).

Sabbath shakes us out of the notion that we can keep the world spinning—all plates held static in the air—as long as we keep moving and keep working, as long as we keep up the momentum of the hustle.

On Sabbath, we are not sorry that we only go slow.

Sabbath invites us to savor. Savor what we already have. Savor a slow meal, a mindful walk, quality time with family, the slow drip of coffee. Savor the way the morning light floods the front room and glides over the piano, illuminating the gallery wall of art and photographs and memories. 

Sabbath points to Jesus, and Jesus gives us rest, along with the reminder that we have spiritual riches far beyond what our human hands are able to muster (see 1 Timothy 6:17-19). Sabbath invites us to sit, like Mary at the Lord’s feet (Luke 10:38-42).

If you’re feeling the pressure of the last six weeks of the year, perhaps consider incorporating into your weekly rhythm this practice of worshipping, savoring, and slowing.

It’s a gift that you don’t have to wait for Christmas to unwrap.

This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in this series "Savor".

After the Rain.

It was the first sunny day after a string of rainy ones; we couldn’t wait to get out of the house. I texted my friend Heather, “Park date?” as I buckled the kids into their car seats.

We arrived at the park at almost the same time in almost the same outfit – Patagonia jackets to ward off the wind chill and high-waisted Lululemon tights to rein in the postpartum sag (just me?), an unofficial South County mom uniform. We made our way from the row of SUVs and minivans to the play structures and bench seating. I unloaded the snack bags and diaper bag and extra bike helmet and the three-wheel scooter. The sky was a bright baby blue, with only traces of the clouds that covered the sky the night before.

Between us, we had five kids roaming in three different areas. Heather and I tag-teamed bathroom runs. My arms moved constantly – fishing for the fruit snacks in the zippered lunch box, catching a scooter before it tipped over, patting baby while I bounced him. We talked while the boys played, but our eyes never stopped moving either. I was mid-sentence, handing my two-year old a water bottle when I caught a glimpse of my four-year old climbing a rock structure meant for the big kids.

I hesitated, unsure of whether to move towards him or stay, when I saw her – another mom of a preschooler, with her arms outstretched to my son, ready to catch him if he slipped.

Thank you, I mouthed, when she looked back at me. “You had your hands full,” she said.

I could have felt inadequate and overwhelmed; a bad mom for having three kids and only two arms. Instead, I felt the cool release of the breath that I didn’t realize I was holding and the warmth of the sunshine after the rain.

—

There’s a hymn that I love called Hark! The Voice of Jesus Calling. It’s a hymn about answering the call from where you are; a hymn about doing what you can with what you have and trusting His grace to fill the gap. To me, on this day, it was a hymn about ministering as a mother.

If you cannot be the watchman

standing high on Zion's wall,

pointing out the path to heaven,

offering life and peace to all,

with your prayers and with your bounties

you can do what heaven demands;

you can be like faithful Aaron

holding up the prophet's hands.

That’s the visual I see – arms outstretched, hers in place of mine.

We can start on the playground.

We can hold up each other’s hands.

We can hold out our own.

This post was written as part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to read the next post in this series "We're Better Mothers Together"