It's my usual Friday morning of lying here covered in children knowing that I should get up and feed them but once I do that the cascading work of the weekend will begin to tumble forward and I won't come up for air until Monday morning.
And you know, that's how I feel on Tuesday morning--just a few more minutes before the Sisyphean tasks of the work week begin. Because once Tuesday starts there's not breath until Friday but Friday starts its own more particular and exhausting climb towards the top.
Sunday, of course, is the pinnacle. You climb towards it all week, in various ways, reach the summit sometime during the morning, and come rolling down all the rest of the afternoon and into the evening.
The rhythm of the week is good. The climbing is paced and reasonable, though hard. It's not, as per the new Kevin DeYoung book which Matt is supposed to blog about but probably can't because he hasn't read it yet, 'Crazy Busy'. Such a helpful distinction--reasonable busy vs. crazy busy. Maybe I'll blog about it for him.
Without the rhythm--each day it's own appointed set of activities and tasks--I do it think it would descend into 'crazy' and I wouldn't even make it to Sunday. The rhythm carries me along, well, along with God, so that I don't completely loose my mind. Rhythm is such a nicer word than Routine. I hate the word Routine. It makes me want to run out of the house into the street screaming and waving a huge insanity flag.
This is how I wish I really spent all my time. What is this creature for? And why does he get to stay here while I get up and muscle up breakfast? And why is he always grinning at me like that? He should at least have to pull a little wagon with a lot of stuff in it. Or something.
This hymn really sums it all up.