I know what you’re thinking. I’ve thought it as well.
It’s not at all what you thought it would be.
Everything you do in a day unravels.
It comes undone.
What you did today will need to be done tomorrow and in much the same way.
The fridge you stocked.
The counter you cleaned.
The clothes you hung.
The bellies you fed.
The baths you gave.
The books you read.
The toys you gathered.
The beds you made.
The tears you dried.
The homework you checked.
The miles you drove.
The forgiveness you offered.
The prayers you said.
Fill what’s empty.
Clean what’s not.
Wrap order around chaos.
And do it again this afternoon.
And the next day.
Your hours are on repeat, or so it seems.
Your toil is thankless, or so it feels.
You’re tempted to complain, so you do.
But then you remember that you chose this.
Only you didn’t really know what this would be.
You wonder if any of it matters.
If any of it counts.
If any of it is leading to, well, anywhere.
Your eyes squint to see the beauty.
They strain to make out the significance.
And once again, you feel small.
But your work isn’t.
No, your work is huge.
You’re making a home.
In a neighborhood that needs you.
For a family that’s been given to you.
By a God who is big in you.
Your home—and your homemaking—matters.
Know that. Trust that. Keep showing up for that.
Because there’s coming a day when the rooms will empty, and the halls will clear, and you will turn a new corner.
With only the memories of this season in your heart.
Memories you got out of bed for.
Memories you fought for.
Memories Jesus gave His life for.
May they be sweet.
May they be fragrant.
And may the persistent, cheerful stewarding of them never again feel small.
Originally published on the author’s blog
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