A pastor of mine talks a lot about the importance of “self care.”
An awful story on the news and I listen, knowing I won’t sleep.
Turn it off, Holli. Self care.
I’m at the end of my frazzled rope after a particularly wild morning of twin wrangling.
Open the window, read a little Anne Lamott at naptime, Holli. Self care.
Haven’t had real meal (that didn’t include my chlidren’s leftovers) in two days.
Eat some broccoli, Holli. Self care.
There is much to love about self care, and I find myself invoking its name more and more these days, and with less and less guilt about it.
But this weekend, this weekend was about “us” care.
It wasn’t really in the schedule.
It wasn’t really in the budget.
But looking at our present, our lives, and feeling that we were just getting from point A to point B some days, it was exactly what we needed.
As fall is beginning with its schedules and routines and its “I’m here and you’re there and I’ll have the kids and then you’ve got a meeting and then I’ll be doing my homework until the wee hours,” we made a decision.
To stop and be with one another. Even for just this weekend.
Nine years of marriage, five years of infertility, and two-and-a-half years with children (the twin variety) can sometimes make things a little foggy. Then you add in work, school, friendships, family, and all the “other” that surrounds a marriage, sometimes it is hard to see the person you married.
But this weekend, in a cottage down in a hollow in God’s country, we saw one another.
We read a book.
Nature’s serene symphony occasionally interrupted only by his laughter or an occasional, “Listen…this is so funny.”
It’s good to hear his laughter.
And it is so much easier to hear and see each other out here, removed from all the “stuff,” returned to the earth.
The smell of the cedar firewood.
The taste of the breakfast on the farm.
The touch of a hand, not held away by the demands of parenthood, but available.
With the “stuff” of the everyday stripped away, God sneaks in and stirs your soul with such ease.
That still, small voice is always louder without all those competing for attention.
All weekend, the Innkeeper had talked about the need for rain. The gardens and grasses needing replenishment. Needing nourishment.
And then it came.
Sunday morning, after two days of seeing one another again, we awoke to the gentle sounds of this very, needed rain.
As if permission.
Go home now, replenished. Restored.