Tipped-over toys and dirty socks

They're everywhere. Or maybe that's just all I see anymore. Jadon's toys have overtaken the house—the gameroom, the kitchen, our living room's corner. Only our bedroom escaped most of that tornado, but even when I try to retreat there for a little me-time, dirty, smelly socks run me right back out (and they're not mine—because my dirty socks don't smell).

**Disclaimer: Please don't think any of the following words reflect on my love for my family. I love my husband and my son more than any dreams or plans or pressures to have a clean house. Just know that.

I'm so tired. I feel like I'm just barely keeping my head above water. Or maybe what I feel is more like dog-paddling toward a shoreline that I still can't see, no matter how much I squint. I'm running out of stamina.

There's not enough time in my day to straighten the house that gets wrecked the moment Jadon wakes or to call my sister, who admitted she's feeling a little lonely, or to cook that semi-healthy dinner for my family or to jog a few miles to clear my head or to snuggle with my husband on our loveseat, like we used to do, or to practice the bass guitar for our concert this weekend or to write those chapters I've been sitting on for weeks or to finish designing those pages for the job that pays our bills or to even breathe.

I'm just running out of stamina.

Lately I've been looking at the lives of people I barely know, and I've been wishing for the simplicity I imagine they have. I see moms and dads picnicking with their children, and I wish I could take just one hour away from everything and let Jadon feel the park's abnormally green grass tickling the bottoms of his bare feet. I see grandmas walking behind grandchildren on bicycles, and I wish I could somehow make my grandmother mobile again. I see our neighbors and their good friends sipping hot chocolate in rocking chairs on their front porches, and I wish I had time for a friend.

And it seems like I've been meeting more and more moms who get to stay home with their children and raise them to know the Lord, and I feel a little envious that their husband's salary is enough for their family. Then every once in a while, I'll meet the woman who is checking off her list of goals as she rises up the ladder, and I feel a little envious that she wasn't asked to put her dreams on hold.

I could really let this bother me if I dwelt on it. But the thing is, I don't know their stories. They could be treading water, just like me. Some of them may even be drifting away from that shore while they try to keep their head above water.

Our pastor, Scott Heare, talked Sunday about how God really does play hide and seek. God is hiding. Sometimes we find him when we're not looking. Sometimes we find him when we're looking for him. Sometimes we look and look and look, and we don't find him anywhere.

I've been looking for God for a long time. I don't know for how long, but I do know it's been a really long time. I had stopped looking for a while. Until Scott opened my eyes to something.

He said that when we see God, it's because he wants us to see his heart. But when he's hiding from us it's because he wants us to learn something about his mind. He wants to grow us in wisdom about himself, about our circumstances, about the spiritual truths that can change our lives.

I haven't learned what I need to learn yet, so he remains hidden.

So I've been sitting around, since Sunday, thinking about what God might want to teach me by hiding. Maybe I'm supposed to enjoy the sight of tipped-over toys and dirty socks because some people don't have the joy of a family to pick up after. Maybe I'm supposed to embrace the tasks on my to-do list because some people don't have the privilege of doing for themselves.

Maybe I need to really learn what it means to surrender my pales-in-comparison life plan and exchange it for his bigger-than-any-of-my-dreams one.

So I'll keep dog-paddling toward that distant shoreline, God, until I can see you again. Really see you.