I was sitting in the mother’s room at church, feeling guilty
for taking up a rocker with my bottle-fed, clearly-not-sleeping baby when I
heard the voice over the speaker say these familiar words: “Through small and
simple things, are great things brought to pass.”
A planned lesson. A
hello, how are you? A kind look. Calling a child by name. Greeting a newcomer.
Volunteering for an assignment. Participating in class. Getting the children
ready. Making sure we are there. Raising my hand to sustain my husband in his
new calling, knowing that it means more lonely evenings, chaotic one-woman
bedtime routines and dirty dishes left in the sink.
I was standing in the kitchen, pen in hand, planner open,
baby on my hip, and looking the faded clipping of a painting I’d cut out of an
Ensign nearly ten years ago. The faces in the painting, familiar to me because
of the models, show a mother and two sons with a Bible open between them,
reading the words of God. The caption my adolescent Sunday School teacher
attached to his painting was an unassuming scripture: “Now ye may suppose that
this is foolishness in me; but behold I say unto you, that by small and simple
things are great things brought to pass; and small means in many instances doth
confound the wise.”
Piles of reading
homework from the kindergartener. Joy school lesson plans scribbled on index
cards. Baby bottles lining the kitchen counter, keeping the painted rocks and
brown paper bags company next to last week’s grocery ads. An open planner, the
empty slots betraying the business of my days because writing “laundry” six
times on a weekly spread is depressing. This month’s book club book waiting to
be opened, the calendar says the meeting is next week. Crayon drawings adorn
the fridge, the star space belonging to a construction paper pot-of-gold with a
glued on rainbow drawing and lined white paper with pencil markings that proclaim,
“mY sistr si speshul.” Two piles of photos from birthday collages, waiting to
be put away in memory boxes. In the garbage is an orange bag that used to be
filled with peanut butter M&Ms—my husband got a handful. My kids didn’t
even know the bag existed until it was empty and they found it in the garbage.
I was scrolling through my Instagram feed, ignoring the
screams and yells of my children fighting and the voice in my head highlighting
my failures at keeping a peaceful home, when I read the words a friend had
attached to a snapshot of her daughters, dressed in their Sunday best but
clearly not wanting to pause for a picture: “’We may be doing things that only
God can see, but they are the very things that make the greatest difference in
our own lives and in the lives of those we love’-Tiffanie Brown, April Ensign.”
A kind word. A phone call, a text, a pinterest joke. Updated family pictures on the walls, a record of our family's growth. Blog posts from events that happened almost a year ago. An email here or there. Hours spent researching family history. A prayer for a friend in need. Giving up a shower to cuddle a baby. Making sure everyone has clean underwear. Picking up debris off the floor before it finds the baby's mouth.
I was sitting on the floor in my living room, trying to
ignore the piles of toddler toys surrounding me as I talked to my mom on the
phone for the first time in a week. I knew my husband was waiting for me to
spend some rare time with him, but I just couldn’t help continuing the
conversation because all week, I’ve needed my mom and we finally had a chance
to talk. She’d left me a message on Thursday, the hardest day of my week, but I
couldn’t call her back for fear of the tears that I knew would come once she
answered the phone. All evening, I treasured that voicemail in my heart,
thinking, my mom called me. SHE called
ME.
On this evening, I had called her. I wasn’t feeling as
alone, had taken a nap that afternoon, and was refreshed by the parts of the
Sabbath day that didn’t include wrestling and wrangling children.
After so many days and so many reminders, I finally found
myself voicing the truth I felt inside my heart:
“It’s hard to be the one at home. He’s got so many amazing
and grand things going on, and I’m in the throngs of the small and simple.”
“Yes,” my mother’s voice confirmed. “But Rinda, the small
and simple things one day will be the
great things.”