The Ordinary IS the Fruit

Day after day I unload and load the dishes only to find another stack piled up in the sink.

I move the clothes from the washer to the dryer to the giant pile waiting to be folded only to have another overflowing hamper after I tuck everyone into bed.

I buy milk every few days only to realize we are out of milk. Again.

And occasionally I measure their heights against the wall to see if anything is changing.

Time is flying by. And in the middle of these ordinary days, my children are growing up. My hair becoming streaked with gray. My eyes sprouting a few new wrinkles with every smile.

And I wonder, often, if I’ll ever arrive.

Will I ever know?

Will it ever feel worth it?

Will I somehow stop worrying?

Wondering?

Is this right, God? How will I know?

Where is the fruit?

I do not get any answers.

Only dishes and laundry and empty milk jugs and occasionally a few more ticks higher on the wall.

Sometimes I pause in the middle of the chaos. In the middle of the noise. In the middle of an ordinary day.

I run my fingers across the grooves where we mark their heights on the wall and think, wow, so many inches in just one year??

It quiets my mind for at least another few hours.

I turn to the pile of backpacks on the floor. Markers and artwork scattered across the counter. Cartoons calling from the other room. Another stack of dishes piled up in the sink.

And the lines around my eyes crinkle with another smile.

Turns out, the ordinary IS the fruit.

And it is so sweet.