Leftovers and New Mercies

For dinner last night, I served leftover Chinese takeout and pizza from the weekend.  It was one of those meals when I microwaved individual plates, added grapes to the menu as an afterthought, and scarfed down my food before we rushed out the door to soccer practice.  A flurry of reminders (grab your shin guards) and warnings (just-get-in-the-van-NOW) must have lingered in the air even after I slammed the door shut behind us.

I was surly.  I was tired.

Spending an hour in fresh air at the soccer field did little to improve my mood. 

Somehow, the night wore on and the kids ended up tucked into bed with their teeth brushed and pajamas on.  I don't remember the particulars; I just recall staggering back downstairs and looking over my kitchen: dirty dishes still on the table, rice and an overturned cup on the floor, unsorted paperwork from my daughter's school on the counter, toys scattered across the family room, shoes everywhere (really, how many feet do we have in this family?) 

The dishwasher needed to be emptied.  The counter needed to be wiped.  The floor desperately needed to be swept.  And scrubbed.  Perhaps sand-blasted.

In the hallway I spotted my work bag, tilted with a binder and papers spilling forth -- tangible reminders of the speeches and essays I needed to grade, spreadsheets I had to update, and final lectures I ought to plan. 

In response, I simply turned around, slowly climbed the steps, and went to bed. 

Sometimes the most spiritual thing we can do is go to sleep.  Nothing else was going to get squeezed out of me last night.  Instead of fighting, I simply yielded.

Mess: 1, Robin: 0.  You got me today, mess.  I've surrendered.

God's mercies are new every morning.  Perhaps one way we can realize this is by floundering though a day, but waking up the next morning and recognizing that we've been given another shot.