It is a silent house.
My husband is on an errand and has taken my two little ones, lending me an opportunity I don't often have (as mothers will exquisitely understand!)
I am alone.
Just before leaving, my eight year old daughter addressed me with an urgent plea... 'Mum! don't forget the colouring competition!'
Her creativity has spilled over into a project that has filled her with excitement and a sense of urgency: she had created four identical images of bunnies collecting eggs. One for her brother, one for me and her dad and one for grandma.
On Friday she put forward her petition: 'Can you and dad please colour in the pictures before we go away on Monday?' (They are staying overnight with Grandma as it is school holidays and I have a full day at University and my husband is away on business)
She wants the competition ready for her to judge on Monday night.
My husband and I promised we would get around to it, but alas, it is Sunday evening and plans for the week ahead crush in urgently on us, cramming themselves uncomfortably into the final rays of daylight. Neither my husband or I have gotten around to the task so precious to her.
Her parting plea, instead of compelling me to action, drives me to anger.
'Don't you realise how busy mummy is? I have study and housework and I have to pack you and your brother's bags before uni tomorrow!' I send her away and I'm feeling exasperated and pressed. The disappointment in her face is the last thing I see as she leaves.
I have two hours in this silent house before they will be back.
Two hours in which I could try and do the three hours of reading required for class tomorrow.
I could begin to prepare dinner.
Hang and fold the mountain of washing.
Enjoy an indulgent and much wanted rest....
I begin my uni readings. It's sensible. It's urgent.
But.
I feel the familiar tug.
God.
He's drawing me away.
Frustrated, I retreat to my bedroom where a hasty, panicked prayer is offered up. 'But God, I have so much to do!'
And then He leads me, as He does lately, one step at a time. One foot in front of the other because it's all my hurried, jumbled brain can handle these days.
'Put your headphones on, go in the sun and colour.'
Frustrated and edgy, I gather the supplies and do as He has said.
I sit for half an hour listening to worship music as I use my son's waxy, richly hued pencils to colour in the picture my beautiful daughter has drawn.
I colour with abandon and I feel tension dissolve on the page as I stroke wild lashes of viridian green grass and ring the sun with cadmium yellow.
This simple, tactile art brings me back to a simpler time and drops an even simpler, pure message into my spirit.
This is what it's all about.
How often I forget.
How often He reminds me.
I suddenly can't wait for my daughter to arrive home.
What else can I do to make this the pleasurable experience she so desperately wants it to be?
I raid the Easter egg collection I have accumulated for next week. I choose a large bunny and tie a string around it's neck. To the string, I attach a label that says, 'The prize.'
Now the competition is really worth striving for :)
I know she will be thrilled.
I leave my entry, along with her brother's and the two blank ones, waiting to be coloured on her little table. (I will whisper in her father's ear tonight).
The prize bunny is there.
So are the crumbs from breakfast.
My perspective has returned.
God tells me quietly, 'This is the Holiest Ground.'
Where self and surrender intercept.
I take my shoes off.
The floorboards are slightly tacky beneath my feet.
My toenail polish is half worn off.
I am Moses.
This is my house, my battle ground.
And slowly, I am learning.
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