I sigh, eyeing the cluttered living room and remembering that the dirty supper dishes still sit in the kitchen sink. My aching feet and legs are screaming for rest, and my eyes are heavy. I look down at my clothes, colorfully stained with syrup, grape jelly, and carrots. Tears and noses have been wiped on each shoulder, and small, dirty fingers are imprinted on my shorts.
This job–mothering–is certainly not the glamorous life that I’d dreamed of living back in college. No one pats me on the back at the end of a long day and says, “Great job!” or “You’ll be up for a promotion if you keep up such fantastic work.” No one pays me overtime for the hours that I’ve worked today or announces, “You’ve earned a day off!”
I reflect on the day. My five-year-old daughter saw me praying and reading the Bible today, and she went into her room and pretended to do the same thing. I overheard her tell her dolls, “Jesus loves you! That’s good news, isn’t it?” I saw her caring for her baby brother with gentle words and caresses. When we piled into the minivan and drove to the grocery store singing along loudly to Veggie Tales all the way, my three-year-old daughter didn’t miss a beat.
Somewhere there’s a storehouse in heaven, and my treasure is being laid up there tonight. Meanwhile, I have a treasure store of memories; today, I am rich. I am learning the instructions of Jesus: “Whoever wants to be great among you must be your servant.” I’ve laid aside earthly wealth, ambition, and success, and taken the lowest position–the full time caregiver of my children.
I muse as I sit here looking around at the mess–feeling very tired–that in heaven the mommies might be first in line to hear, “Well done, good and faithful servant.”