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These are the kinds of conversations happening in my home these days:

Conversation #1:
Me: Why are you wearing your brother’s underwear?
Boy: There’s no clean underwear. I’ve been wearing these for three days.
Me: You’ve been wearing dirty underwear that doesn’t fit you for THREE DAYS?
Boy: Yep.

Conversation #2:
Morgan: What’s for dinner?
Me: I don’t know. I have no plan. Too many baseball, ballet, gymnastics, and church meetings. We are practically nomads who rely on the kindness of fast food establishments for sustenance.  

Conversation #3:
Me: I can’t find my phone. Maybe I left it at the wedding Sunday?
Morgan: No, I think you left it at the restaurant.
Me: I didn’t even have it out at the restaurant. We were on a date, so I left it in my purse.
Morgan: Yes, you did. Remember? We were synching schedules while we ate.
Me: We are so romantic.

I keep telling myself this is only a season. Except, I’m pretty sure I’ve been saying that for the past five years. So, if this is only a season, then it’s a long season that may last until Jesus carries me home, phoneless and full of Whataburger after one final baseball game.
I am choosing to see my inability to keep up with our life as a grace. I used to feel like a failure when there was no clean underwear in my children’s drawers. Now I just see it as a situation. I used to think we were like lab rats, running endlessly in a wheel when our lives moved faster than we could. Now I see myself as the woman who lives outside of the insanity of time, slowing things down whenever I can.
Because life is not a schedule to keep. It is an altar at which we offer our worship. And if I’m going down as the woman who could barely keep up, then I’m going down with my hands raised high, singing praise to Jesus. 
So bring on the houseguests from France, the three services on Easter, the book I’m trying to write, the Etsy shop orders, the children who need guidance, the yard with grass that is dying, the projects I’ve promised to finish, the speaking engagements, the floors that need mopping, the eight baseball practices and games every week, the emails that must be answered, and the doctors visits that must be faced bravely.
I will climb that mountain and call it holy before the Lord. 
Someday, all the craziness will change. We will be left holding the memories of our triumphs and our tragedies, of the way we loved and the way we fell at God’s feet in worship. All our failures will burn up in His forgiveness. Only His grace and love will remain, enduring evidence that we were undeservedly covered by the Light of His great mercy.
But for now, my altar is built right here, beside the computer and the pile of laundry. I call this place Grace, and I am grateful to be here, safely held by Jesus.

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