Exhale sharply

My two year old fed my one year old baby a piece of his bread and jelly.  Baby was sitting on a library book.  On the rug.
I sighed.

Somebody unrolled the toilet paper to find their perfect piece.  It was apparently at the end of the roll.  I re-rolled it.
I sighed again.

There was dried yogurt on the window.  The baby got stuck under the piano again.  Three pairs of muddy boots were shaken off on the freshly vacuumed rug.
I breathed out in despair.

My husband asked me if I could make him a cup of coffee as he sat down to start a homeschool lesson with the kids.  Navigating blindly behind the ample laundry pile in my arms, I responded with a muffled "Uh-huh."  Sure I'll  be the good little housewife and add one more thing to my to-do list in the next five minutes.  He caught the exhale that followed.
"Sigh!" He mimicked emphatically.  "Your life is so miserable, huh."

I frowned as he hit the nerve, but let the sensation linger.  I was sounding pretty depressed with life.  A few minutes later, bearing a warm mug of coffee as a peace offering, I plunked down next to the boys as he finished reading their Bible story.  He accepted the cup, eyeing me gently.  "You didn't spit in it, did you?" he smiled at me.
"No." I returned.  "I guess its not so bad."
"Bad?" One of the minions questioned.  "Its bad to spit?!?"
"Only outside!"  Mommy started the etiquette lesson and the day moved on.

Do not grow weary in doing good.  2 Thessalonians 3:10
I read it this morning; it was a reminder, but I should have taken it as a warning to be more careful.  I know sighing can be destructive and sapping.  I sigh to celebrate a pity party.  It robs me of joy as well as anyone else who is the recipient of my attitude.  And I let it.  

My home should be a peaceful haven for my family.  Its not always happy, light and bubbly.  Its definitely not always (well, ever) quiet and clean.  But I can, and do, set the mood of the busily humming life within these walls.  Its my great and sacred purpose as a housewife to be the heartbeat of the home.  Thats not easy, but it is a wonderful job description.  I am not a slave or a prisoner in this house.  I am Mom, and I wouldn't trade that title for any position, wealth, or power.  

But if I forget how noble and sweet even the menial parts of my work are, bitterness seeps in.  Eventually, it seeps out too, and it poisons the whole atmosphere of my home.  No matter how much laundry I do, or diaper changing, or vacuuming, or homeschool teaching, or meal planning, or even planning quiet evenings with my husband, it is not particularly helpful if my home is still full of bitterness, unrest, and oppression.  

Jesus, the king of the universe, served His friends and family daily, in menial ways.  Was he any less a king because he washed his disciples' grime-crusted feet?  He touched the lepers, the dead bodies, filthy demon-possessed men, the bleeding women, the snotty children.  He hung out with smelly, sweaty fishermen.  Did they feel his bitterness at his servanthood?  

No, he didn't sigh at their neediness.  Daily, even when he was tired, hungry, hot, frazzled by the crowds, he loved them.  He served them.  He died for them.

I should be able to re-roll toilet paper and make my husband a cup of coffee with a joyful heart.  Jesus would do it for me, King of heaven, Lord of all men.  I, queen of my castle, can do it for my own ankle biters.  And I get to teach them to spit.  Who else can?  That's just special.