Little House

I read Little House on the Prairie books to remember the dignity of sweeping my floor. How else does one survive the pages upon pages on how to make headcheese, fashion bullets, and construct a log cabin, if not for the sanity it brings to daily chores? The books have endured for a long time, not because they are fantastical, but because they show the beauty in surviving. 

The family makes it through the winter because of the canned vegetables and meat stored away. With Spring, comes deep cleaning and a fresh feel to the home. No, the book has not turned me into a Pioneer woman. And I don’t think cleanliness, organic gardening, or hard work will merit endless happiness. However, my life is full of small and quiet things that must be done. 

My normal response is to either gripe that they are there or to forget them all together. Rarely do I pray before putting my little ones to bed, or ask the Lord for help as I wash dishes. I hardly give thanks as I stock my fridge or notice the bed that’s been made and the face washed. 

Our life in the Himalayas is extra quiet. It lacks the energy of a city and the entertainment I grew up with. I can count my friends on one hand. Convenient foods are rare gems, so everything is made from scratch. Sort of like Ma. Yet, I miss the beauty of my own everyday labors. Why? Perhaps because I want bigger stuff. I have dreams. Who has ever noticed the patience I pray for repeatedly with my two-year-old, and where’s the applause in cleaning a countertop a thousand times? 

If what I do is a small matter, and not relevant to anyone else, then it’s pretty discouraging to keep doing this work day after day. If it’s in the way of my dreams and not the stuff of dreams, what’s the point?

There’s something magical that happens when Laura and her family work so hard that their cheeks turn pink and Ma cooks up a big dinner to satisfy their healthy appetites. Pork crisping on the stove, berry pies, and steaming cups of coffee. And then they move near the fire and Pa tells a story and you wish you could be there to hear his big-hearted laugh. This is the point where I put the book down to pop popcorn and slice apples for the kids and I. I want to share in a day well done. 

There’s something terrible about downplaying the beauty of surviving. Isn’t it a wonder that the Lord gives us bread to eat and bodies to work? It is a gift when our muscles move and sweat forms on our brow. 

I have no eyes to see this wonder when I do the work in front of me with a joyless heart, idle hands, and wandering eyes. Instead of giving the smallest chores all my energy and focus, I dawdle and complain. Or when I’m feeding my baby a bottle with one hand and scanning Facebook with the other, I miss the beautiful, fleeting task the Lord has put in my very lap. 

This half-hearted posture towards my work makes it hard to rest at the end of the day. Pa’s fiddle sounds old-fashioned and I’m jittery. I have definitely worked, but my mind and heart are elsewhere. I’m discontent with what’s been done, anxious over what remains, and worried that my friend might be happier than me. 

I want the feast of a satisfied heart. The Lord has given me good things to do and they are in no way small.