Going to him, Jesus. It means dropping the mop. Leaving the piles of laundry, folded and unfolded, around the living room, the ironing board up, the dishes in the sink.
It means leaving not only the work but the possibilities as well. Perhaps less frequently: tuning out, relaxing, watching TV, chatting.
“Come,” he cries.
And I try to run now, now that I’ve been broken and lost for some time, now that I know that he’s where I need to go.
I close the windows, the e-mail windows. I put on side blinders, like a horse, so I can only see the screen and the book and the Bible in front of me. To the right, the address book, the girls’ barrettes to put away, the gift due half a month ago that I never sent. To the left, the skewed papers, the husband’s train tickets, the bank statements, the to-do list in big letters on top of the to-do list in small letters, the phone in airplane mode, and more laundry I didn’t get to put away.
I’m not proud of my mess or easily relaxed about it. As a perfectionist, to listen, drop and run towards Jesus’ voice regardless of the rest feels like shirking duty. I would love to pick it all up first. But I’ve finally come to admit that it will not ever be done before I can come and sit and listen. That my circumstances will never be perfect for learning. This is my duty: to attend the urging to listen. Listen and live. Listen and change. Listen and love. Listen and…know him.
Doesn’t he call all day long? Yes. But quite frankly, I have a hard time really listening to my husband or children or friend when I’m madly running around the house or computing lists in my head or answering work e-mails. And that’s why we have breakfast with a husband or cuddle with a child and her favorite book or order a coffee with a friend. And all the while, we put those blinders on, like the horse, to look forward into their eyes and not get sidetracked, get the jitters, veer off the road...
So here I am.