It’s noon and I’m jumping in the car to go grab a spur-of-the-moment donut. Boston Cream. Every time. And I get a text message from a new friend.
I’m in the drive-thru when I hear her voice pop up in my head and on my phone and she wants to know what I’m doing for lunch tomorrow. She suggests sushi.
I do not like sushi.
Not even a little bit.
I don’t like to feel like my food may be making eye contact with me.
But I like my friend. She’s a new friend and getting to know her is one of my favorite things. I remember this when she texts me again, “All I want is your time. I want to talk about God and life and writing and success and failure and moving on and being strong.”
And there it is.
It was never about the sushi.
It was about the raw time. The biggest gift we can give each other.
Being willing to spend uninterrupted hours together. We need so much more than that. Because we’ll all starve on a diet of 140-character tweets and Facebook updates.
It’s about being able to sit across the table from each other and talk about what success and failure mean and how we survive both. It’s about being able to dig into our lives and sift through the ordinary in order to really connect beyond the default, “I’m fine.”
It’s about being willing to be interrupted.
If motherhood has taught me one thing it’s how much I dislike being interrupted. How selfish I am with my time. How much I want to hoard it. You think I’m kidding? My ideal Mother’s Day weekend would not involve my kids. It would involve me, a hotel room, a king size bed, Netflix on a loop, and lots of room service.
Motherhood has exploded my personal space, demanded my 24-7 attention and deprived me of sleep for a decade. And if I’m honest it’s made me resent interruptions. All I want most nights is for the kids to leave me alone once I’ve tucked them in so I can enjoy some “me” time.
It’s been like breaking up with myself — becoming a mother.
If you can relate. If you’re reading this exhausted. If you’re just so over this week, these kids, all the demands and the dishes and the piles of undone laundry then please know if I could come over right now and tell you how incredible you are, if I could pour you a hot cup of tea and rub your tired shoulders I would.
But I did write this for you. Because this is why God does it. This is why He sends these thing hurricanes to huff and puff and blow our lives down. I’m convinced that this is what it is for.
One day we will thank Him for it. It might not be tonight when you can barely think straight. But one day you’ll know that none of this was wasted. Not one exhausting bit.