By Michelle (Graceful, Faith in the Everyday)
Obedience. What do you think of when you hear the word obedience? My dad was a sergeant major in the Army for 37 years, so for me, the word obedience conjures images of obeying the barked command, “Michelle! Get your head outta your duffle bag!”
St. Benedict, I’m learning, had a different view. As I methodically make my way through a book called St. Benedict’s Toolbox: The Nuts and Bolts of Everyday Benedictine Living, by Jane Tomaine (stay tuned for more on this topic; during Lent I’ll be writing a Blogging Benedict series), I came across an intriguing interpretation of the word obedience.
"I read somewhere a long time ago that life happens in the interruptions," writes Tomaine. "Interruptions are opportunities to practice obedience."
As a mother to two young boys, my life is a constant stream of interruption. No matter what I’m doing – writing, reading, cleaning, cooking, dressing, eyebrow plucking – I am interrupted. "Mommy! I’m thirsty!" "Mommy, can you wipe my bum?" "Mommy, come look at the cardinal!" "Mommy, can you read me a book?" Frankly these endless interruptions make for a fragmented, disjointed existence.
This past weekend my much-needed nap was interrupted by two boys bounding into the bedroom, trumpeting, “Let the Valentine’s party begin! Everyone! It’s time for the Valentine’s party!” Noah had planned this family event a week in advance, posting a notice on his bedroom door, gathering craft supplies, filling individual glass-footed bowls with pastel conversation hearts and creating love-themed novelty games.
Although I was aware of the impending Valentine’s party, I was very much not in the mood. To be honest, I was praying the boys would forget about it. I had a throbbing headache – brought on, mind you, from a morning spent in the bowels of a local church, cheering Noah’s hand-made “Cactus Cruiser” pine car as it clunked down the track at the annual Cub Scout Pinewood Derby. Picture this: dozens upon dozens of prepubescent boys buttoned into their dapper Scout uniforms, hopped up on Twizzlers and running madly about the room. Add a blaring microphone, a minimum of 110 car races, an interminable trophy ceremony and a mother who ingests half her weight in Cheetos. Like I said: Throbbing. Head. Ache.
But we’d promised to participate in the Valentine’s party at 2 p.m. sharp, so I dragged my weary body from bed and trudged across the hall to Noah’s room. Brad was already there, picking through a bowl of conversation hearts.
I don't think it's a coincidence that when Jesus was interrupted, he stopped what he was doing and turned his attention to the needs of his followers:
"Then he took them with him and they withdrew by themselves to a town called Bethsaida, but the crowds learned about it and followed him. He welcomed them and spoke to them about the kingdom of God, and healed those who needed healing." (Luke 9:10-11)
In this passage, Jesus and the disciples are clearly yearning for a bit of peace and quiet, and they try to withdraw by themselves to Bethsaida. But the crowds follow them, interrupting their quiet time and clamoring to hear Jesus' teachings and be healed. Rather than turning them away, rather than responding with irritation to the interruption, Jesus speaks with them and heals them. He intentionally decides to respond to the interruption.
Believe me, I know interruptions can be annoying, especially in our busy, overscheduled lives. But in those moments of interruption often comes a plea for help from a neighbor or loved one; a moment of connection. An opportunity to love.
So on Saturday afternoon the four of us played the simple games Noah had created. We sprawled on the carpet and cut construction paper hearts, glued delicate doilies and inscribed sentiments of love in magic marker. We read "kiss me" and "sweet talk" off buttercup yellow and mint green candy hearts. We exchanged our valentines.
Nothing spectacular occurred. It wasn’t a fancy party, with buttercream iced cupcakes or whimsical decorations. It was a party planned by an eight-year old. It was an interruption in my day. But in this ordinary interruption, God was speaking loud and clear. "Stop what you’re doing and obey," he was saying. And I did.
How are you living within life's interruptions? Do you ever hear God speaking to you in these fragmented connections?
Michelle is a Christian wife and mother of two originally from Massachusetts now living in Nebraska. She is a part-time writer, editor and fundraiser for Nebraska PBS/NPR. Michelle loves to write about how her family illuminates God's presence in her everyday life, and on finding (and keeping) faith in the everyday. Michelle enjoys reading, running and writing. Be sure to go visit her blog, Graceful, Faith in the Everyday.