Satisfaction and Worth and the Meaning of it All

Satisfied.

That's what I feel like, on all but the most uncharted reaches of heart and soul. It's a pleasant feeling...one that is not necessarily rare, but rather, elusive. Always escaping me just when I think I have it locked tight, like Hoodini.

I'm satisfied with getting to blog at the end of a busy day; it's really a miracle to just get to write...write...write. People get killed for writing what they want to in some countries. I'm satisfied with the weather. Spring. Extreme fluorescent green leafiness in the upper sections of forests hereabouts.

I'm still happy and cozy and satisfied inside from having out-of-town visitors for afternoon cookies and coffee on a Saturday. John and Cindy, some long-time friends who live a few hours away, stopped in to visit while seeing other friends in the area.

This morning when they called, I was vacuuming, and stopped to answer the phone. The cheery voice on the other end told me that she was "Aunt Cindy," but I heard "Aunt Wendy." Thinking I was on the phone with my Aunt in New York whom I haven't seen (or heard, mind you) in forever, I chatted with her wonderingly, trying to imagine why she was calling, and then why she wanted to talk with Mom instead of Dad first. Only after my Mom's short while of confusion on the phone did I find out that it was Aunt Cindy! And to think! I was the one who affectionately dubbed her that in a post graduation thank you note! Well, it was good to see them again. They brought Butcher Shoppe cookies for us, and we sat drinking coffee and iced tea in the living room while we dicussed our lives, the people we know, and some politics. I'm satisfied.

This morning I really wasn't all that satisfied. The tide had gone out a little, though I was by no means depressed. But I sat on the couch for the longest time, marvelling that it was really Saturday this time (every day this week I've thought it was Saturday!) and trying in vain to will my feet onto the floor. They wouldn't go. Coffee in teacup, cold bagel, banana, head massage from Mom. And then I got up, but felt a little crazed by the sight of more dishes. AGH! I revolt. I rebel. I will us bark bits for plates and drink from wildflower buds. I will buy protein powder and live on shakes forever so that we can forget the whole horrible business of cooking...forever! No more soap, no more suds. No more hot water. Stuff the sink with fake flowers. I can't take it any more. So much as another smudgy teaspoon and I will pack up and move to the funny farm!

But no. Dishes must be done. Life must go on. Floors must be vacuumed, rugs shaken out, laundry changed, and three lasagnas made (and consequential dishes properly disinfected). It wasn't so bad. The work wasn't hard. I really do like to cook. But a consistant presence of undending housechores has driven me to search for meaning in the monotony. Today is just another progression in the process.

I went into housecleaning slightly grumpy and on the verge of spilling some verbal sewage...not raw sewage, exactly, but certainly not purified! But I remembered the verse God brought to mind the other night when I went to Him after a long day. It was from 1 Peter 3, where it says,

"But let your beauty be that of your inner self, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in God's sight."

The individual chores are not that grueling in themselves. But when my life seems to be a progression of menial jobs and pursuits, I start hearing a voice inside that says, "Well, if you don't like this, what do you think it's going to be like in ten or twenty years when you have a house, a husband, and kids of your own..." Well, that puts an ugly blight on my dearest wish, and that is when I have to rise up and ask honestly, "Where is my sense of worth coming from?"

Our world (at least this part of it) is trained from infancy to perform and produce like little isolated factories. We can't be still; that's lazy. That's vacation. If we don't work in the professional world, we stay at home, perhaps feeling foolish or guilty. And/or we strive to produce, to succeed academically, cultivate skills, develop hobbies, make ourselves beautiful...

With Solomon, I have to ask, what's the point? My first impulsive answer: I want to be worth something. I want to count. I want to last. I need to make my mark. Where? On a sphere of dust tilting towards the fire?

"Is it not from the Lord of hosts that people toil for fire, and nations grow weary for nothing? For the earth will be filled with the knowledge of the glory of the Lord as the waters cover the sea." Habakkuk 2:14-15

I strive to finish my list each day, but if I do happen to finish it, I feel emptier than ever. I go to bed asking, "Will anyone love me? Will anyone listen to me? Am I beautiful? My family thanked me for my hard work. They enjoyed supper, or cake, or whatever it was. They admired the shirt I made with my own two hands. But after that transient twinge of pleasure at their words, was there anything but silence inside me? Besides that haunting ache?

This isn't a pity party, but rather a cry for my generation, for the world aroudn me. Self pity doesn't live here any more, but Hope.

Because, after all, Jesus isn't planning to come back and take us to heaven to do chores with Him, is He? He didn't sacrifice his life to get himself a bunch of little factories, did He? His own words in John 14 were that "I will come back and take you with me, that you may be with me where I am." He doesn't long to see us perform for Him or produce anything. He yearns to BE with us. Visit. Like today, with John and Cindy. Come close. Like Ethan on Mommy's lap. Why does Ethan cling to Mom constantly, insisting, wailing, for hugs and kisses every time she leaves the house, begging her to "come and be with me"? We laugh at him, but I confess that I've longed for the same thing myself. Over and over. But you have to grow up, of course. You have to be mature and join the "real world." But truly, what is more real, than standing stripped of all works, talents, riches,and skills, to look into a friend's eyes and know there is acceptance there? To know that down deep, where you know you are a blind, speechless beggar, there is something valuble to God? Of great worth? Something that God is supremely satisfied with, though we may never understand why at all. What would it be like to live like that, knowing that?

When I go to my "secret place" with God, I find healing and rest. That night when I was feeling so worthless, I looked in the mirror and was disgusted and afraid. When I was in His presence, though He hardly said a word to me, that ugly shell fell away. In fact, when I looked in the mirror again, I saw a different person. Someone who is worthy and lovely in His eyes.

I know that the chores are inescapable. As I said, they are not that bad in themselves. It's just the constant drive to accomplish that wears me down. But in the secret place of the Almighty God, I am sheltered. Under the shadow of His wing, I truly live, a free being, loving and being loved constantly.

This morning, somewhere in the midst of the bad attitude I remembered how much God loves a gentle spirit, so I started looking to Him again. And I finished vacuuming, shook the rugs, and had a bit of lunch. Then I started making the lasagnas, browning a third of the ground beef in one pan and two thirds in a bigger pan to be split later. It sizzled away to the accompaniment of the music I'd put on. I measured the mozzerella into two bowls like the meat, tasting along the way (just to make sure nothing's wrong with it!) Tumping the cottage cheese containers into the pile, I left gravity to do its work while I stirred the meat. On it went, and a kind of happiness...a satisfaction...grew in me as I worked, feeling God so close at hand. It's true that there is a lot of work that must be done in this world, but what truly defines me is His invisible loving presence. The only place to get worth for my life is from Him!

By the time I was stacking the containers of fresh lasagna filling and going to hunt refridgerator space, I was almost loath to leave the warm atmosphere of the kitchen, where God seemed to be resting with me, quite satisfied.