Some days are way weary. This is one of them. Its wonder’s wedged in the dusty gap between the cupboard and the fridge. And stuck in pancake syrup still puddled in the morning’s plates.

Tupperware towers topple on the work tables, containers that once held unrecognizable food rescued from the depths of the ancient gargantuan chest. “Clean it,” they said, “and plug it in so we know it works.” (The first thing they did was chop the plug off before they hand-trucked it up the stairs and off to freezer recycling heaven.)

The Hoosier cabinet’s blanketed with colorful papers, a small bag of baked Lay’s potato chips, and a Ziplock filled with blue mineral “sand” that we bought for the new little bunny. We’ve never used  any, and there’s enough for a whole herd of rabbits. There’s also a small measuring cup and mini funnel to fill the steamer I’m using to remove the kitchen wallpaper. I’ve been working on that for over a year. The steamer’s gathering dust on the floor next to the Hoosier.

The kitchen table’s also littered with papers, a couple books, a cup of cold coffee, my keys, my cell phone, this computer, my wallet, and the littlest grandgirl’s play phone.

On the counter behind me is a bowl of bananas, my pill case (so I remember to take them, but I don’t), two boxes of tea (green and black), an empty Subway bag, a canister of black licorice bits, my mother-in-law’s amber candlewicked chicken candy dish, and my camera.

My husband’s been battling a kidney stone, the big grandgirl’s still healing, I’m heading to Laity Lodge on Thursday, and my to-do list stretches from my unmade bed on the upper floor to the toothpaste-spattered bathroom sink on the main floor to the discombobulated, cobweb-draped laundry room downstairs.

If Martha surveyed my house right now, she’d have a stroke. This place is a mess.

And to think my word for the year is “order.”

But sometimes the proper order of things is to pull a Mary in the midst of the mess. To choose the best part. To sit at the feet of the One who orders disorder, who births wonder out of messes.

So I stop. I turn away where I can’t see–in order to see.

I go outside and find the air is apple crisp, the day is bright, and colors are starting to pop. The order of seasons is right on time. I breathe deep, suck Him right in all the way down to my toes. And with every breath I wonder if I’d ever see wonder apart from messes. If I’d take wonder for granted. I’m reminded this mess I’m in right now, it’s a marvelous mess–a mess of plenty, a mess of love, a mess of grace.

I marvel at the wingspan of a soaring hawk, the whir of a hummingbird’s wings (why are they still here?), and the wispy whiteness of the clouds. I wonder at the wonder of it all.

And when I go in, I rinse off syrup and wipe down the fridge.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

when wonder’s wedged

by Sandra Heska King time to read: 3 min
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