11.4 // Running Away

By 2PM this afternoon, I had hit my limit.
There was so much noise, so many needs, endless demands.
I was a well tapped totally dry.

So, I decided to run away.
I handed Olivia and Benson each a Fun Dip packet, showed them how to lick the red sugar off the candy stick, and shoved them out the front door. Then I threw John Taylor in his car seat, sped out of the garage, and shouted out the window to Jackson who was in the front yard raking leaves:

“I’m out of here! The kids are all yours! I’ll be back in a few hours!”

I assumed he was asking questions or something, the way he mouthed and scrunched his confused eyes and waved his hands at me, but I was already peeling out of the driveway.
The sleeping baby and I left them all in the dust.

This is the day in a nutshell.

And so tonight’s Examen, as always, begins with gratitude.
A pause. A long, long pause.
There are days where the beauty of life with God comes so easily.
But today is one of those days where it takes a while.

I’m thankful for our washing machine— because I was pooped on twice before lunch and the baby has worn six different outfits today.
I am thankful for our healthy, curious children— who broke a plastic golf club over the lamp (Benson) and have not stopped talking for several hours (Olivia— her longest stretch was pretending to do a hot sauce and hummus informercial for twenty-five straight minutes. I swear, I’m not making this up.)
I am thankful that Jackson’s eye exam went well today— but I also struggle with his diabetes, wondering why he has to suffer with this disease, growing anxious at the possible complications as we age.

Another pause.

So for the sake of time, this is the list I finally come up with:
1. A car
2. A half tank of gas
3. A relatively long drive into town to aimlessly wander and peruse to the aisles at Aldi and Ross

Waterless wells.
Tired mamas.
Weary partners.
Frazzled coworkers.
Anxious friends.

There are days when the noise of our lives is so loud, our own hearts— let alone the still, small voice of the Spirit— are muffled and suffocated. In response, we can grow angry or resentful. We can isolate ourselves or try to escape. We find ourselves a mile from home and finally exhaling, wondering how we got this tired and claustrophobic in our daily life.

I remember going for a run down a road lined with dried corn stalks this time last fall. I left in the same spirit of exhaustion, and I recall feeling as dry and as empty as the golden stalks. The sound of the corn reminded me of dry bones rattling, like prison chains or being trapped.
I ran as fast and as far as I could for as long as I could until I my body matched the utter fatigue of my heart. And hunched and heaving on the side of the road, I remember the divine question that gently came:

“Why do you rage against your given life?”

Not why are you so darn tired.
Not why did you choose to leave all your friends and have three kids and stay at home with them full time in the middle of these cornfields.
Not why are you so weak and unable to handle more.

Why are you raging against the life you are given? Why are you refusing the gift?

I find that I am given holy questions far more often than holy answers.
And clearly I have not discovered a clear antidote to a loud, busy life. Many of us, whether we are parents or not, live at a pace we cannot sustain. And often times it is not something we can necessarily control: chronic illness, intense work hours and responsibilities, caring for a sick family member, financial stress, and yes, young children— to name a few.

All of these life situations make peace and gratefulness incredibly challenging.

We have to admit that even though our edited and carefully selected exterior lives look simply delightful, our daily realities are exhausting. No one really has it all together.

And yet it feels unnatural to concede to the difficulty of our humanity.
It goes against all we are taught about resilience and strength and accomplishment.
It certainly dismantles the myth of “high capacity people.”

We live in bodies. And bodies have limits.
We have senses. And senses can be overstimulated.
We love with our hearts. And hearts can be depleted, abused, mistreated, broken, and anguished.

Life is too messy for “name it and claim it” living.
Everything doesn’t always happen for a "reason” and sometimes life gives us far more than we can handle.
Cheap faith and shallow words about God do not account for lives that require far more than we feel willing or capable of giving.

Thankfully, we don’t have to change our lives by sheer will or strength.
And we don’t have to rage against our lives either.

We can wrestle and question and lament like many of the great saints.
We can rest in the words of the psalmist:

How long, Lord? Will you forget me forever?
    How long will you hide your face from me?
How long must I wrestle with my thoughts
    and day after day have sorrow in my heart?
    How long will my enemy triumph over me?

Look on me and answer, Lord my God.
    Give light to my eyes, or I will sleep in death,
and my enemy will say, “I have overcome him,”
    and my foes will rejoice when I fall.

But I trust in your unfailing love;
    my heart rejoices in your salvation.
I will sing the Lord’s praise,
    for he has been good to me.

As I finish writing this examen reflection, it is approaching midnight and Benson just stomped out of bed and down the hall in search of a mama to help him straighten his blankets and find his pacifier.
(Yes, Ben is three years old and still takes a paci.)
John Taylor will be up soon for another feeding.
(No, he doesn’t sleep through the night yet. Not even close.)
And Olivia needs a ride to school early tomorrow.
(And yes, we drive our kid to school.)

Life is a constant grind. And searching for gratitude in the noise and monotony of days like today can feel like trying to catch falling leaves in the autumn wind.
Its all precarious and clumsy.
And yet, there is room for all of that. There is grace that cuts through all the noise.

A final word on this practice:
The Examen does not just ask us to wear rose-colored glasses and project false optimism over our lives. And neither does our God. Alongside gratitude, God invites us to consider moments of discord and dissonance, times when we wanted to escape or numb or avoid the pain.

And I’m thankful for the invitation to recognize pain or weakness or limits.
Because when we are invited to name and sit with our frailty, we can receive grace.