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| Unsplash: Matt Seymour |
I was recently on vacation with my husband and children to spend the week with my in-laws who live several states away. They are actively caring for my sister-in-law, their daughter, who is two years out from brain surgery that removed a large, and thankfully benign, tumor. While she has come a long way in her recovery, she has faced several set backs and is currently wheelchair bound, requires a gastric feeding tube for nourishment, and needs hands-on assitance with many necessities of daily living.
Over the past year that Stacy has been home from the hospital convalescing, my husband, our children, and I have endeavored to be as helpful as we can be whenever we spend time precious time with them.
I'll never forget asking my mother-in-law during this recent trip, as she was nestling several feeding bags into a cooler, how I could best help around the house while she and my father-in-law drove into town to accompany Stacy to her therapy appointments. She quickly scanned the kitchen and then promptly asked me to do the following three things:
- Wash the glass globes of all the bathroom and kitchen light fixtures
- Clean and refill the hummingbird feeders
- Pick the ripened squash from the garden
I quickly assented, stepping aside for them to wheel Stacy out the front door, and set right to work, but all the while my mind was in a state of flux and unrest. I couldn't help but think, Really? Of all the things? Light fixtures and hummingbird feeders? No sheets to wash, errands to run, bills to pay, cupboards to organize, files to sort, calls to return, appointments to make, rooms to vacuum, or sinks to scrub?
And so, as I awkwardly scooted step stools into hallway bathrooms (as light fixtures are always JUST out of reach), unscrewed tiny metal holding pins (that inevitably bounced out of my hand and clattered around behind the comode), and submerged glass globes into a bucket of soapy water, I pondered the importance of these daily tasks compared to all the things that must be accomplished to run a multi-person household, especially one that is supporting around-the-clock medical care.
And yet, as I think more upon things now, it all comes into sharper focus. Perhaps it is the passage of time or the well-timed reading of a beautiful book on the cultivation of quiet.
But this is how I see it now.
Those "little" and maybe "unnecessary" tasks around the house served a larger, mightier, dare I say holier purpose.
They literally increased the level of light by which we lived and reaffirmed the wonder and beauty of life, creation, and the natural rhythms of planting and harvest.
Author Sarah Clarkson says it this way, in her book Reclaiming Quiet: Cultivating a Life of Holy Attention:
"their [the fields and flowers] beauty wasn't a neutral distraction, peripheral to the suffering at large in the world. They were a kind of answer and defiance, an order and loveliness that endured..."
So, by washing the light fixtures and caring for hummingbirds, we were driving a stake in the ground for beauty, light, and life. Those other "to dos" that I could quickly conjure up would get done out of necessity--somehow and in someway by someone. That day--my mother-in-law's 80th birthday, in fact--was a day to bring in the light through sparkling fixtures, bake a cake, string up a hand-lettered banner, reclaim beauty, and support life...even the life of little gem-like birds, small enough to hold deep within the palm of one's hand.
In a very real and tangible way, this reclamation of beauty, light, and life in these small little ways summoned us all to trust our Creator, the Light of the World, in much deeper ways with big things like brain tumors, wheelchairs, and feeding tubes.
On that day, my mother-in-law did not need me to step in and encourage her to simplify, to cut out all the "non-essential" aspects of creature care in and out-of-doors, but she needed me to drive that stake deep into the ground by flipping on a switch and allowing her to "oooh and ahhh" over the lightbulbs she could see with crystal clarity when she returned home.
I'm still reflecting, still processing, still praying my way on this pathway of wisdom, one day at a time. Will you join me, dear friend? I so hope you do.




