A Corner of Quiet

Tuesdays are noisy.

They are noisy auditorily (which is how we normally think of noise), but also visually, verbally, and physically—because our homeschool co-op uses all parts of the student and teacher (much like the Native Americans once used all parts of the buffalo). And today, to top things off, I came home from our homeschool community day to find dog diarrhea all over my kitchen rug and a long string of cat barf gracing my kitchen table, so I also gave myself a check mark for olfactory noise as well.

In other words, at the end of today, I have heard, smelled, seen, felt, and spoken all the things I am capable of. And it is (at the time I’m writing this post) not even dinner time.

I still have five squealing, piano playing, vacuum-running, stinky-feeted, touchy-feely, talkative, emotional children awake for another three hours (plus three pets who feel like they need to make up for lost time since I was gone all day). And this isn’t counting the husband I actually want to hang out with.

What is a homeschooling mom of many to do when she has reached maximum sensory overload?

Well, today, I choose to say “thank you” and allow that thank you to hollow out for myself a tiny corner of peace and quiet even in the midst of the chaos.

Thank you for shedding, snuggly pets with intestinal issues who love us well.

Thank you for excitable, playful children who want to tell me about their days and help me with all the things and squeeze in a few long hugs.

Thank you for learning that can be fun.

Thank you for students who want to engage with the material, who challenge themselves, who enjoy each other and me.

Thank you for a husband who will understand if, when he comes home, I am talked out, touched out, and worn out.

Thank you for friends who support and encourage me on long days, who share chocolate covered almonds and their wealth of knowledge, who laugh with me about the shenanigans and stand with me when the wind blows hard.

Thank you for promising a peace that surpasses understanding, a shelter where we can curl up when the storm around grows strong. We know that when all around us is chaos, God is still a God of order, and we can rest in that.

Tomorrow, Bruiser will consistently beat box and make machine gun noises. Tiny will sing a single line of the Pirates of the Caribbean theme song over and over like a broken record. Littles will insist on smacking his disgusting watermelon gum right next to my face. Twinkle will forget to flush the toilet and to wash her hands (and then put said hands all over my face). Bee will decorate her carpet with a multitude of tiny snips of yarn (along with half the contents of her dresser). Blythe will fling the cat food all over the laundry room. Oswald will insist on humping me. Trigger will chew his nails as loudly as canine-ly possible.

And I will have to choose again.

Will I snap at my children and grow frustrated with the pets and have to hide in my closet and pretend my reality away? Or will I choose again a purposeful miracle: the turning of chaos into quiet simply by counting my blessings?

We can’t always change the external circumstances, but we have a God who promises far more for our internal souls than we could even ask or imagine. And if he can turn five loaves of bread and two fish into a feast for a multitude, he can turn a few thank you’s into a corner of quiet where he can give peace.