Sometimes I think my life is boring. I mean, it must be so because The Masses aren’t flocking to film my every move and leaving me hundreds of adoring comments on this blog. The general public isn’t booking me for speaking engagements, asking for my autograph, and picking through my brain for nuggets of wisdom. I am not fawned over.
Sometimes I can get in a rut when I fixate on My General Boringness. It’s an unattractive and yucky place to be, so I don’t write about it much.
But it still happens.
And then I read something like The Hiding Place and realize that I’m really glad I have a boring life. I wouldn’t want it any other way—(pregnant pause while I double check that thought)—yes, I do believe that is indeed The Beautiful Truth.
I like waking up in my soft bed with the mismatched sheets and the falling-apart pillowcase that my children made for me, the songbirds chortling to high heaven right outside my open window, the rooster crowing his testosterone-laden crow.
My days move forward slowly, evenly. I teach my son to scrub the kitchen floor and watch like a hawk while he perfects his piano pieces. I listen to my daughter read (!). I dish out instructions, stories, and bowls of beans and rice. I make my eyes get big and incredulous when my youngest informs me that his bruises are the result of eating too much candy. While the sun goes down we replant the green beans. We fold laundry and vacuum and tuck in the kids.
Sometimes I marvel at the pointlessness of it all, as in, We are all going to die so why do we keep trying so hard?
And sometimes I revel in it all, as in, This is my family and I get to live with them and grow my food and read books, oh my word WOW.
When I sat down to write this afternoon, I had nothing to say. My hands lay limp beside me, the laptop balanced on my knees. And then I started typing.
And now I am done.
This same time, years previous: how to freeze strawberries and make strawberry jam, buttered peas and brown buttered noodles with ham