Unworthy Servants

Ah, the gentle sound of children screaming at each other over breakfast. Every day I question my new way of letting them get their own breakfasts. Elphine is turning into a bossy tyrant, allowing and disallowing other people to make hot chocolate or put cheese on a bagel. It's my fault, partially. I hold her and Alouicious responsible when I walk in and the kitchen is trashed, since it's their job, so she's mainly trying to defend her turf and reduce her own work load. And yet, unconscionably, I disallow her from screaming at everyone. It's so unfair of me I think to myself. She would never say that, of course, but I know we're all thinking it.

On the whole I have suddenly noticed this week how basically pretty good they all are. I mean, except the little one, who is such a trial to everyone's happiness. They work hard. They don't mouth off. The don't argue, too much. They are sort of curious about stuff.

In the spirit of keeping my expectations pretty low about reality in general, I am always teeter tottering on a line between expecting nothing of them at all–I mean, basically, keeping firmly in mind that they are horrible sinners like me, and that it shouldn't be shocking when they are mean and unkind, or lazy and stupid, basically evil little jerks like I myself am–and having very high expectations of their actual behavior and abilities. I mean, they can't do a terrible job on something and expect any congratulations from me. I'm not going puff them up. But I should do a better job of noticing when they're not awful.

At the core of it, I wish them to know, in a way I myself don't know enough, that we are all Unworthy Servants. We are only doing that which we ought to do, and even then it's not enough. We serve, and don't expect congratulations. We do our duty, and don't expect fire works to go off. We take the lowest chair, because Jesus, who made himself nothing, is our King and our Lord. This is all true, but none of us really believe it, I nor all my children. If I clean the kitchen to a sparkle, I'm totally put out if not a single person notices. If I Do All The Laundry I have to Instagram it because no one around here cares. At the end of the day I make a list of all my accomplishments in the hope of establishing myself before somebody, at least Matt, hopefully Jesus, maybe myself. See what a lovely person I am, my soul whispers. Look. See. Taste this delicious food, the work of my carefully manicured fingers.

And all the time I'm only doing what I'm supposed to, only I've actually ruined it with a grasping pride. Fortunately, I mean, Providentially, Jesus knows this about me and already did something about it. His work, unlike mine, is perfect and finished. And his forgiveness goes on and on and on, as the waters cover the sea.

And on that note, I'm going to get up and attend to the incredible catastrophic screaming that is going on in the kitchen. It seems that Gladys does not want to be a spider, and Marigold cannot make herself heard over the din, and Everybody Is So Anrgy.