Forgetting Something
This morning as I was slapping together Little's sandwich and trying to divine where Tiny's sippy cup had disappeared to, I had this niggling feeling that I was forgetting something, that there was something I was supposed to be thinking about. What was it, though? I'd gotten out to exercise already (in blisteringly cold winds), had my quiet time, been purposeful about greeting the boys with joy, made the beds, sipped my coffee slowly. What was it?
We were walking out the door, Little's backpack on his bag, Tiny slung over my shoulder along with the diaper bag, when I saw the recycling truck coming up the road. Our very full recycling bin is no where in sight, by which I mean, most definitely still in our locked garage. I hesitated a minute. Maybe it wasn't that full. Maybe we could make it another week. Maybe... And then I grabbed the keys out of the diaper bag, hoisted Tiny up a little higher, and high-tailed it for the garage, Littles following questioningly in my wake. I managed to get the lock open (no small feat), man-handled the recycling bin out the side door (the garage door is a beast), yelled (lovingly but loudly) at Littles to Get Out of the Way NOW, and raced to the curb, just as the recycling truck pulled up in front of our house. I said a breathless good morning to the driver, loaded the kids in the car, apologized eloquently to Littles, and hit the road.
And then it hit me. It wasn't that I was making bad choices this morning (although forgetting to put out recycling wasn't my best option and yelling at Littles may be in the grey area); it was that I was forgetting the point. The routines I'd chosen were there for a purpose--to remind me of Christ, to help me choose the Good Portion--and instead they were just becoming routines. Good ones, maybe, but without the heart behind them they were just meaningless actions and reactions.
So I just want to say: don't mistake the means for the End, don't mistake the discipline for the Reward. And please don't let me do that either.
We were walking out the door, Little's backpack on his bag, Tiny slung over my shoulder along with the diaper bag, when I saw the recycling truck coming up the road. Our very full recycling bin is no where in sight, by which I mean, most definitely still in our locked garage. I hesitated a minute. Maybe it wasn't that full. Maybe we could make it another week. Maybe... And then I grabbed the keys out of the diaper bag, hoisted Tiny up a little higher, and high-tailed it for the garage, Littles following questioningly in my wake. I managed to get the lock open (no small feat), man-handled the recycling bin out the side door (the garage door is a beast), yelled (lovingly but loudly) at Littles to Get Out of the Way NOW, and raced to the curb, just as the recycling truck pulled up in front of our house. I said a breathless good morning to the driver, loaded the kids in the car, apologized eloquently to Littles, and hit the road.
And then it hit me. It wasn't that I was making bad choices this morning (although forgetting to put out recycling wasn't my best option and yelling at Littles may be in the grey area); it was that I was forgetting the point. The routines I'd chosen were there for a purpose--to remind me of Christ, to help me choose the Good Portion--and instead they were just becoming routines. Good ones, maybe, but without the heart behind them they were just meaningless actions and reactions.
So I just want to say: don't mistake the means for the End, don't mistake the discipline for the Reward. And please don't let me do that either.
