I wanted to wrap up my little series on L'Chaim (gluten-free) today, but an obstacle hindered my goal.
Arsenic Hour.
Ah yes, Arsenic Hour--that magical time of day between dinner preparation and presentation which mutates the most angelic creatures into raving hellions, determined to obliterate any scrap of motherly resolve to maintain composure and control over her domain.
No matter what I do throughout the day to alleviate the task of meal preparation, my children's timely squabbles, squeals, and perpetual owwies (today it was a bloody lip) procured at the exact moment mommy's hands are covered in raw chicken goo testifies to their remarkable, supernatural ability to hail the arrival of Arsenic Hour with astounding punctuality.
Gourmet cooking shows fail to impress me. Sure, the top-notch equipment, bountiful budget, and multiplied feet (not inches!) of cleared and properly sanitized counter space all complement the chef's ability to produce a palette-pleasing plate of eye candy that I certainly have no talent to parallel. But really.....throw a few fighting toddlers and scattered toys underfoot of a sleep-deprived master chef wannabe managing boiling pots, sauteing vegetables, a mortgage-due date on the calendar, and a schizophrenic "Treasure this moment!" voice pounding in their head, and now you've captured my interest.
I am not a fan of reality television, but you bet your boots I would voraciously watch a hidden camera investigation featuring kitchens across America at Arsenic Hour. Because I am convinced the people who airily proclaim and photograph those bonding, "teachable moments" (you know, those flour-kissed toddler noses with grubby hands mixing batter) as a blanket assumption for how every single household ought to operate on a daily basis, are, quite frankly, liars. Or not stay-at-home-moms. Or not human...
I suppose I could celebrate Arsenic Hour. Embrace it. Be thankful for it. Find the good in every facet of meal prep, like affording food and raising a family. Remind myself that years down the road, I will miss these blessed days of being unable to step out of the room for sixty seconds without hearing *Thump!* *Smack!* *"AAAaaaaaahhh! Mommmmmmy!!!!" echo through the house, because by golly, precious moments like these just flew by too fast.
Yes, I suppose I could do all of these things. And I'm not saying I haven't or shouldn't. But the life-sucking madness of Arsenic Hour exasperates me. It is the culmination and explosion of every suppressed negativity throughout the day. The roaring lion that devours all resolve to maintain control.
I believe at some point, every parent has experienced Arsenic Hour.
And I wish more people would tell the truth about it.
Honestly, I almost always reach a point in every attempt at peaceful dinner preparation that makes me want to toss every scrap of half-cooked meat, grain, and vegetable in the garbage and let the family fend for themselves. But I know I can't do that, and so I chop, boil, bake, fry, kick-the-possessed-Chuck-the-Tonka-Truck-With-The-Broken-Off-Switch-out-of-the-way...onward, until my task is completed.
For me, Arsenic Hour is a fine line between duty and sanity.
So today I transported my mind to happier thoughts of suicidal hymns.
I just love a good hymn. I grew up on real hymns, not contemporary "praise and worship" fluff or even the dastardly attempt to modernize the old greats by stripping them of their original language, tune, tempo, and even theology (McHymn, anyone?). Since I've become an adult, there are very few songs where I know every word of every verse, but I still recall dozens of the hymns I grew up with. They always come to me when I'm struggling through these "times that try the soul" (Anne of Green Gables, thank you very much).
Tonight, in the midst of the chaos of Arsenic Hour, I found myself singing "When We All Get To Heaven."
Sing the wondrous love of Jesus
Sing His mercy and His grace
In the mansions bright and blessed
He'll prepare for us a place.
When we all get to heaven
What a day of rejoicing that will be
When we all see Jesus
We'll sing and shout the victory.
What struck me about this hymn was not the typical exhortation on the love of Jesus, but rather, the focus on heaven (Brilliant, I know--it's in the title, for pity's sake). But it really made me think about a common thread among countless other hymns: passages of dying, leaving the toils of earth, and spending eternity in heaven. At first glance, the lyrics focusing on dying and going to heaven sound slightly suicidal. I'll Fly Away, When the Roll is Called Up Yonder, Sweet By and By, Shall We Gather at the River merely name a few.
In this day and age where we (particularly Christian mothers) are pressured to bow to the god of hearth and home, treasuring every moment with our children and placing family service above all else, my soul felt refreshed to remember these old hymns that honestly acknowledge the toils of life are just that--toils. They encourage me to strive to serve Christ and remind me of the hope and assurance of a greater reward.
But they don't do this at the expense of glossing over the reality that life is full of hardship.
Oftentimes, it feels like one simple statement of exhaustion, frustration, and temporary insanity (often feared to be permanent damage) is immediately swiped to the far right on the receiver's one-dimensional windshield-wiper scale of: Great Christian Mom----or-----> Backslider, with no in-between measure to understand the subtext of the statement. To assume a hymn writers' focus on leaving the toils of life and finding true rest in heaven is suicidal because they are just not relishing each breath God gave them is no more ridiculous than interpreting every exhausted mother's statement of looking forward to days of peaceful meal preparation as evidence she does not appreciate the blessing of motherhood.
In fact, I believe it's evidence that she has a purpose and a goal--to raise mature, independent adults.
Just like the great hymns remind us, we are striving, trusting, serving.
Let us then be true and faithful
Trusting, serving ev'ry day
Just one glimpse of Him in glory
Will the toils of life repay.
If we did not have hardship, we would not need to strive. If we were not plagued by doubts, we would not need to trust. If everything was handed to us on a golden platter, we would not need to serve. Our greatest reward would mean nothing if we did not endure the sacrifice of self in this life. Yes, there is much to enjoy in life, but God gives us hardships, not to conjure happy thoughts of blossoms and butterflies, but to refine us and to teach us obedience through perseverance. To remind us that this world is not our home.
And so, when Arsenic Hour invades our peace again, I will persevere in confidence. Confident that I am serving a greater cause than simply slapping dinner on the table. Confident that I have a greater reward besides a messy kitchen and a half-fried brain. Confident that my desire to complete this daily task without the clatter of craziness does not mean I don't appreciate my children's younger years or treasure them any less.
Confident that when we all get to heaven, I will not miss Arsenic Hour.
What a day of rejoicing that will be.
