Sometimes, we can’t. So we don’t. A poem about that kind of faith:
“Today, I Didn’t”
Today, I didn’t make the bed.
And I didn’t hang up my robe. I left it crumpled on a pillow, where I tossed it on my way to the kitchen to get more coffee and reheat the leftover broccoli quiche. And to contemplate a forest of trees in the yard and admire God’s handiwork in fading green leaves drenched in sunlight.
Today, I didn’t wash the dishes.
I let them bathe in a pool of warm suds, which quickly turned cold, so I could phone some friends and laugh about the Late Show and remember when we ate ice cream for breakfast and waffles for dinner.
Today, I didn’t put the dirty towels in the hamper.
I left them on the sink near the mirror with the soap smudge I meant to wipe, but didn’t, as I prepared to meet another friend for a short lunch which lasted three hours.
Today, I didn’t watch the news. Didn’t listen either. If anything were really new, someone would tell me. Not about another shooting, fire, flood, executive order, death, birth. But about claiming rich hopes, scaling greater heights, discovering hidden treasures.
Today, I didn’t complain.
(At least I think I didn’t.) Not about the traffic, or the blue pickup that cut me off, or how my team played baseball – and lost. Or the Wi-Fi fritzing out, again, when I tried to download the circus meme declaring that these are not my monkeys.
Today, I didn’t sweep away the cobweb by the stairs.
I thought, perhaps, the spider there needed another moment to rest before I could grab the broom from the closet with the glass cleaner for the mirror with the smudge in the bathroom, across from the bedroom, where the bed still stood, unmade.
© 2017 – Rev. Jennifer L. Sacks. All rights reserved.