Scribed In Light

Most of life does not arrive wearing sequins.

There is no marching band outside the bedroom window announcing:

ATTENTION! THIS DAY WILL LATER BECOME PART OF THE STORY OF YOUR LIFE. PLEASE ACT ACCORDINGLY.

Most of life looks like a Tuesday.

Laundry in the dryer that you have restarted twice because apparently folding it would require a level of commitment you are not currently prepared to make.

Someone used the last of the toilet paper and left the cardboard roll behind as evidence.

Your coffee has gone cold.

Again.

The dog just vomited on the rug.

You’re running late for work and trying to remember whether you grabbed your keys, your phone, your coffee, and whatever remains of your sanity.

The phone is ringing.

Someone is asking what’s for dinner while you’re still emotionally processing breakfast.

Nothing about any of it feels historic.

But it is.

Because this is your life.

Not the vacation next month.

Not Christmas.

Not retirement.

Not the magical future season when the house stays clean, everyone behaves appropriately, the bills quit arriving, and nobody needs anything from you for seventeen consecutive minutes.

This.

This messy little Tuesday.

And you only get so many of them.

We Keep Waiting for “Later”

We have a strange habit of dividing life into two categories:

the good stuff

and

the stuff we have to get through before the good stuff starts.

Monday through Thursday?

Just make it to Friday.

Running late for work?

Just get through the morning.

Laundry?

Doesn’t count.

Grocery shopping?

Definitely doesn’t count.

Cleaning the kitchen?

Necessary evil.

Standing in the kitchen talking to somebody you love while the groceries are still sitting on the counter?

We may not even realize that counted.

But it did.

We tell ourselves we’ll enjoy life more when things settle down.

When the house is cleaner.

When the bills are lighter.

When work slows down.

When the kids are calmer.

When somebody quits getting on our last nerve.

When the inbox stops reproducing overnight like rabbits.

But life rarely settles.

It just changes shape.

One problem leaves and another strolls in like, “Hey. Heard there was an opening.”

And if we keep waiting for life to become uncomplicated before we allow ourselves to enjoy it, we can accidentally spend years waiting for a life we are already standing inside of.

The Tuesday Somebody Else Didn’t Get

And this is where the thought becomes more serious for me.

Not everyone who went to sleep last night woke up this morning.

Somewhere, someone woke up today and the person they love didn’t.

Somebody would give almost anything for one more ordinary morning.

One more cup sitting beside theirs.

One more pair of shoes in the hallway.

One more voice yelling from another room.

One more ridiculous story they’ve already heard fifteen times.

One more grocery run.

One more dinner to cook.

One more Tuesday.

Not a vacation.

Not a milestone.

Not some spectacular once-in-a-lifetime moment.

Just another ordinary day with the person they miss.

That doesn’t mean we should live afraid.

It doesn’t mean we should walk around expecting catastrophe or feeling guilty because we get irritated, tired, overwhelmed, or just plain sick of everybody before noon.

We’re human.

Some Tuesdays are going to Tuesday hard.

But remembering that our days are numbered can do something beautiful if we let it.

It can make us pay attention.

It can remind us that ordinary does not mean insignificant.

What Are You Handing Your Day To?

Have you ever had someone say something irritating to you early in the morning…

…and somehow they were still riding around in your head six hours later?

They made one comment.

One.

Meanwhile, you have replayed it in the shower, revisited it while driving, rewritten your response during lunch, and developed at least three alternate endings in which you were significantly more articulate than you managed to be in real time.

And the person who said it?

They moved on with their entire life.

Probably ate a sandwich.

Yet somehow we gave them six hours of ours.

We do this with more than people.

We do it with worry.

With disappointment.

With comparison.

With something embarrassing we said in 2009 that our brain apparently feels deserves a surprise anniversary screening while we’re trying to fall asleep.

Some things genuinely need our attention.

Some things deserve a conversation, a boundary, grief, anger, or change.

But some things deserve about eleven minutes and a deep sigh.

And we give them Tuesday.

That is a terrible exchange rate.

Choosing positivity does not mean pretending everything is wonderful.

Some things are painful.

Some seasons are exhausting.

Some losses leave an empty chair that no amount of positive thinking will fill.

Positivity is not standing in the middle of a burning kitchen saying, “Well, at least it’s warm.”

That is not positivity.

That is a fire department situation.

Choosing positivity means refusing to let one hard thing become the only thing you can see.

You can say:

This hurts.

And there is still something beautiful here.

I am disappointed.

And I am still grateful for what remains.

I don’t know how this is going to work out.

And I am not going to spend today suffering every possible version of tomorrow.

Someone treated me poorly.

And I still get to decide who I am going to be because of it.

That is not denial.

That is choosing where your attention goes.

And wherever your attention goes, a piece of your life goes with it.

Does This Deserve My Tuesday?

Maybe this is the question worth carrying around.

When something begins swallowing your attention, ask:

Does this deserve my Tuesday?

Not:

Is this irritating?

It may absolutely be irritating.

Not:

Am I justified in being upset?

You might be completely justified.

The question is:

How much of my life does this deserve?

Five minutes?

A conversation?

A boundary?

A decision?

Fine.

Give it what it requires.

But don’t automatically hand it the rest of the day.

Not every rude person deserves your afternoon.

Not every disagreement deserves your peace.

Not every worry deserves twelve uninterrupted hours of rehearsal.

Not every opinion deserves a response.

Not every thought deserves to be believed simply because it wandered into your head wearing a convincing outfit.

And if the morning was awful?

The whole day is not dead.

It’s 10:42.

Tuesday has not even had lunch.

You are allowed to begin again.

Step outside.

Pray.

Turn the music up.

Call someone who makes you laugh.

Apologize if you need to.

Put down what you cannot fix today.

Drink some water because apparently we are all complicated houseplants with responsibilities.

The next choice is still yours.

Pay Attention While It Is Still Ordinary

There are things happening around us today that we barely notice because we assume they will happen again tomorrow.

A child calling your name.

The dog scratching at the door.

Your spouse talking to you from across the room.

Your mother calling.

Your father laughing.

Your sister sending something ridiculous.

The familiar voice.

The shoes in the hallway.

The clutter.

The noise.

The interruption.

The person sitting at the table.

Familiarity has a strange way of disguising blessings.

Then something changes.

The child grows up.

Someone moves away.

The dog gets old.

A friendship changes.

A chair becomes empty.

The phone stops ringing.

And suddenly something we once considered ordinary becomes something we would give almost anything to experience one more time.

That is why I don’t think making our days count requires doing something extraordinary every day.

Good Lord, we’d all be exhausted by Thursday.

Maybe it simply means being awake for the life we already have.

Sit down for five minutes.

Look at the person talking to you.

Laugh at something stupid.

Take the picture.

Call somebody.

Say thank you.

Say I’m sorry.

Say I love you.

Stay at the table a little longer when the conversation is good.

The dishes are not going anywhere.

Trust me.

They are deeply committed to this household.

Maybe years from now you won’t remember exactly what happened today.

You probably won’t remember what was in your inbox.

You won’t remember whether the laundry got folded on schedule.

Honestly, the laundry may still be somewhere waiting for somebody.

But you may remember the people.

The kitchen.

The laughter.

The sound of the house when everyone was home.

You may look back on a season that once felt chaotic, repetitive, or unremarkable and realize:

Those were the days.

Not because they were perfect.

Because they were yours.

That is the strange thing about the good old days.

They rarely announce themselves while we’re living them.

They usually just look like today.

So feel what needs to be felt.

Handle what needs to be handled.

Rest when you need to rest.

Grieve when you need to grieve.

Life is not asking you to smile through everything.

But don’t let what went wrong blind you to everything that is still here.

Don’t give six hours to something that deserved six minutes.

Don’t postpone joy until life becomes easier.

Don’t rush so quickly toward Friday that you forget you are spending your life getting there.

And don’t overlook the person sitting across from you because you assume you can pay attention tomorrow.

Maybe tomorrow comes.

I pray it does.

I pray we are given thousands more ordinary days.

But today is the one actually sitting in our hands.

Right now.

A little messy.

Probably running behind schedule.

Coffee may need reheated.

There’s a decent chance somebody needs something.

And depending on your household, there’s apparently always the possibility of dog vomit.

But it’s here.

You’re here.

And somebody somewhere would give everything they have for one more ordinary Tuesday with someone they loved.

So live yours.

Not fearfully.

Not frantically.

Not with pressure to make every moment profound.

Just awake.

Pay attention.

Choose what deserves you.

Give your people more of you than your irritation gets.

Make room for laughter.

Look for what is still good.

And when something tries to steal more of this day than it deserves, ask yourself:

Does this really get my Tuesday?

And perhaps that is the heart of it.

Not fearing that our days are numbered.

Remembering that they are valuable.

Because eventually today will become yesterday.

And this ordinary little Tuesday will quietly take its place among the days that made up your life.

You only get so many ordinary Tuesdays.

Don’t hand them away to things that don’t deserve them.

Until next time, keep walking in the Light.

Tina N. Campbell
Scribed in Light

“We never know the worth of water till the well runs dry.”
—Scottish proverb

“So teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom.” — Psalm 90:12