I waste more days than I care to admit.
I never start out to waste a day, but it happens. Or rather, I let it happen. I start off with the best of intentions, but stuff inevitably happens. Todo-list-ruining stuff, schedule-crashing stuff, frustrating, costly, sometimes painful stuff.
I don’t go down without a fight. I’ll usually groan and moan, fight and struggle, bribe and borrow my way to further frustration first. I’ll make sure everyone around me knows that my day is going down the toilet without a plunger, that their interruptions and needs and epiphanies are not appreciated because of what is happening to my day.
You probably aren’t like me at all. You are more likely one who takes change-of-plans in stride, smiling and whistling the whole while. So I can tell you to move away from this blog and it won’t hurt your sunshine one bit.
I really get all wrapped up in my shorts about my plan too often. That three percent of the time in which things actually go my way is like crack — I’m addicted to controlling time and space and people. Every morning I’m looking for my next fix of planning perfection.
If Nester is right that “It doesn’t have to be perfect to be beautiful,” does the same hold true for my day?
Could an imperfect day be precisely the best?
If all my days we picture-planner-perfect with sunshine and finished chores and A-plus tests and 50% off sales and delightful dinner… well, where’s the challenge in that?
Sure, it’s nice when it happens. That’s why we remember the great days. But maybe the extraordinary days, the really best days, are the ones with beautiful imperfect flaws.
The day we pull our unhurt children from the car wreck.
The day we sit up and sip broth after the flu.
The day we place flowers on the grave.
The day we awake propped up in the recliner, the sick baby snoring on our shoulder.
The day we cry forgiveness over a wayward child.
The day we whisper solidary to our hurting spouse.
Yet those days with the big flaws of sickness and suffering beg to be examined, even cherished. We know there is deeper meaning and purpose in the painful moments.
It’s the ruined everyday I want to throw away.
I don’t see the beauty in childish interruption, teenage angst, sibling bickering, burned gluten-free toast, spilled almond milk creamer, or empty wallets. But I should. I’m just blind that way.
I’m blind to the beauty in the chaos of love and action and creativity and joy each change of plans brings. I’ve allowed myself to become numb to the sensation of anticipation. My optimisim is myopic.
What is so absurd about God’s provision, what is so outlandish about grace that I would waste a perfectly good opportunity to watch the miraculous unfold in another one of not-my-plan moments?
That’s an opportunity I cannot afford to waste.