It’s 6:30 p.m. People are coming to my house in an hour and
a half. My postpartum hair loss is all over the floor, my nearly 4-month-old
baby is fed but unwashed, and dinner will be defrosted leftovers hastily
microwaved and scoffed before the guests come. I am tired, hormonal, cranky
from an off-schedule baby who still doesn’t (quite) sleep through the night,
and disappointed in myself because I am a terrible housekeeper. (Bless you for
pointing out the new mother excuse; unfortunately, my housekeeping skills—or lack
thereof—have nothing to do with having a baby.) I want to wake up my hard-working,
neat-as-a-pin husband, who is napping to recuperate from the demands of his
all-hours high tech Silicon Valley job, and cry on his shoulder and ask him to
email our friends and tell them not to come. Oh, and can he please go pick us
up some dinner.
This is not what I visualize when I think about Christians
paying a price, sacrificing, or suffering for the gospel. But as I stand in the
middle of the kitchen, reassuring myself that all my reasons not to have fellow
believers over for our usual Friday night fellowship are totally justified (and
they totally are; I know our friends will be more than understanding), the Lord
reminds me: a little strength. Just a little.
I cannot be a martyr in the Middle East. For the moment,
there is no call for me to serve the Lord in some exotic place, or even in our
local church. I don’t work outside the home. Most days my greatest accomplishment
is to get dressed and make myself food. So most days, I don’t feel like I’m
doing anything of importance (except training the baby to sleep; that is VERY
important!!!), much less fighting the good fight.
But today. Today, there is something I can do to contribute
to the meaning of the universe.
I can ignore my lethargy. I can swallow my pride. I can put
on the kettle, set out the tea, and slice up some humble apples (they’re not
even organic) to put on a tray. I can eat my nuked leftovers standing in the
kitchen while the Best Husband Ever entertains the baby, and then take over the
(heavily condensed, because I’m in no mood to mess around) bedtime routine so
the BHE can eat and finish cleaning the rest of the house. I can take a deep
breath and quietly let go of the totally justifiable reasons I should have the
night to myself to relax and go to bed early (I totally should).
I can let the saints come to my home. I can present my body a living sacrifice while the Word is read and the fellowship flows. I can let
the Lord knit me a little more with these believers that He has placed us with.
And even though I’m too tired to function, I can enjoy their measure of grace.
I can’t preach the gospel to thousands. I can’t serve in
foreign lands. There are many things I can’t do, so many of my God’s needs I
can’t meet. But tonight, there is one small thing I can do for the Lord whom I
love.
I can build up the Body of Christ.
I bow my head over groceries that are still waiting to be
put away. This is not a great trial; it is such a mild sacrifice that I didn’t
even realize it was a sacrifice. But
it is. Opening our home for the home meeting is my small opportunity to offer
the little (time, energy, resources) I have to the Lord. So I will. And I do.
Six hours later as I write this, I am glad the saints came,
as I knew I would be. We’re all going hiking in Big Basin Redwood Forest tomorrow,
plans made over the remains of tea and humble apples. I wanted to spend the day
by myself at the library (between breastfeeding sessions, of course), but this, too, is a precious
opportunity for more "building up of itself in love" to take place.
Right now, my measure feels so small. But even one talent
can make a profit, if properly invested.
