Put your hands up open wide
Put your hands up side by side
Age don't matter like
Race don't matter like
Place don't matter like what's inside
From the iPod docked in some speakers, Switchfoot filled the kitchen this morning. I'm wearing a gray-striped maxi dress today and turquoise earrings, padding around in slightly dirty bare feet (the dust! It never goes away here!). While Quinn munched on a banana I whirled about from counter to stove top to refrigerator, preparing a surprise lasagna for Ben. And Switchfoot got us pumped up.
Let the kick drum kick one time
Breathe out, let your mind unwind
Eyes on the ceiling
Looking for the feeling
Wide open let your own eyes shine
I swayed a bit while I carefully lay noodles in the bed of a casserole dish. Pasta sauce simmered on a burner nearby. Quinn took the opportunity to toss her cup of milk across the room.
Yeah, it's where the fight begins
Yeah, underneath the skin
Beneath these hopes and where we've been
Every fight comes from the fight within
I nodded while I sprinkled cheese, thinking of my own fights, recent and past. I find myself thinking frequently as I get older that life just seems to get more complicated, more layered, more gray than my black-and-white self would like.
Interesting, because I assumed the opposite would be true when I was a girl, daydreaming about the freedoms and confidence adulthood would bring.
I am the war inside
I am the battle line
I am the rising tide
I am the war I fight
Eli and Noah wandered in, wailing loudly enough that I had to pause the music to discern what was going on. Ah, they'd tried to slide down the stairs and knocked into one another.
"I hurt my head!" one sobbed.
"I hurt my booty!" the other pleaded.
And suddenly I felt ridiculous, thinking about the battles I was fighting while I stooped over my tearful little boys, a spatula in one hand and the other rubbing a dark head. Where the music had been, lies wafted like the smell of Italian food: You are far-removed from any type of war. You checked out of that a long time ago. You're barefoot and making lasagna while others take care of the important matters in this world.
It's a well-timed inner dialogue, probably spurred by various articles on the Ann Romney kerfuffle last week. I thought about it while I slid the lasagna into the oven and took things from the pantry for a dessert. I set the ingredients on the counter and freed Quinn from her chair and pulled mixing bowls from a shelf, and I forgot to turn the music back on for a handful of minutes.
I may not have the clarity I long for just yet, but the years have brought blessed perspective that rings in at just the right moments. Mine came as I reached to press the 'play' arrow, Switchfoot resuming their anthem as I whisked pudding.
Yeah, every thought or deed
Yeah, every tree or seed
The big things come from the little dreams
Every world is made by make believe
Angst in the kitchen, or a disappointing career choice, or things you wish you'd said or done, or people telling you that what you're doing doesn't matter, or not enough... We're all fighting battles, and whether they're walked into or not, stumbled upon or dropped atop our heads like thickly-walled clay jars, we've opportunities today to glorify Him and love the people He's placed in our way and make choices --more oregano? ... Hug him, don't scream at him, Lenae-- whose reverberations may not fill the halls of this life until we've walked from them.
Here's to truth and lasagna, friends. What you're doing today is important.
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Put your hands up open wide