I think I should keep tabs on all the sacrifices big sisters have to make. At the top of the list would be never eating my own bag of popcorn—never. In all my sixteen years, I have had only one uninhibited indulgence in popcorn, when I tagged along with my friend to the movie theater and bought my own carton. The shock was so overwhelming that I felt sick afterward. (It might have had something to do with buying a medium instead of a small, but that doesn’t build my argument.) The whole process of making popcorn—the rustling plastic, the popping kernels, the microwave beep—is an open invitation for little siblings to snitch handfuls at a time.
I’ve tried. I’d sneak into the kitchen and pop a bag, and if any hungry-looking sibling came in following his nose, I’d put my foot down and say, “This time it’s all mine.”
“But Bailey,” the three-year-old would reason, “I just want some.”
Being cute should be criminal. He gets away with a bowl full of my popcorn every single time.
Popcorn isn’t the only violated holy ground. I can’t sit down and read St. Augustine’s Confessions without this adorable little curlytop crawling into my lap and grinning at me. Then she places The Poky Little Puppy in my hands and squeals. Even slightly older cuties steal my reading time. Just a couple hours ago one interrupted me to cut an apple. Again. (Whoever invents a kid-friendly apple slicer—my deepest thanks.)
A couple years ago, when my grandmamma was over visiting, my baby brother desired apple juice—a daily task that includes researching whether he’s reached his quota for the day or is, indeed, due for another sugar boost. He desired, as I said, apple juice, and quite frankly, “Bailey, I want apple juice” right when I’m sitting down is not welcome. But company was over, so I grumbled half-heartedly and said something about how Ialways have to get him apple juice, how inconveniencedI was, how much I longed for a professional apple juice pourer. Compared to other outbursts of frustration, this was tame.
Yet my grandmamma pointed out, “Bailey, remember that you’re a servant.”
Me? You. A servant.
That’s what I am. That’s the radical expression of the radical grace I’ve been shown—a slave to Christ, a handmaid to His will. And my domain is my home. This is something I’ve been trying to pound into my head, my heart, my life: There is never a task that is “not mine.” There is never an excuse to say, “That’s not my job.” There is never a minute of my life that is completely my own. Why? If I am surrendered, than I am all Christ’s—and interruptions become divine calling.
To read in full, please go to http://raisinghomemakers.com/2011/the-end-of-not-me/
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