A few months ago, I had a photographer (who also happens to be my sister-in-law. Bonus!) come to my home and photograph our family in the mundane. We didn't do anything special. I intentionally left our house un-vacuumed and un-swept, as it would generally be on that day. I wanted her to capture us as we were. To seal up a capsule of our family in the "now."
When I got the pictures back from her, I was surprised about three different things.
1. I found that I didn't remember much of anything about that day, except that she had come. I didn't remember that it was light at bedtime or that we ate s'mores or that my friend Sara sent us a box FULL of candy from Germany to open that day or even that my brother-in-law and his posse stopped by to drop off hand-me-downs from my aunt.
Part of that is beautiful, because our lives were legitimately captured in the raw. Nothing stuck out to me because none of it was abnormal. But that same beauty holds somber undertones; I know the sun's rising and setting is out of my control, and it's leaving things in an indiscernible blur.
2. I don't smile nearly enough in my daily routine. That needs to change.
3. I was shocked to see how many of the pictures were of myself or of my "office."
Side note: I spend a LOT of time standing in front of the sink or stove. That's where I tape up notes of encouragement so that I see them as much as possible. This helps to remind me of the value of my position, and it safeguards against Routine swallowing me whole. I call this area my office. :)
At first I was annoyed that so many of the photos featured me in some way, because I wanted the shoot to be about our life as a family. But as I continued to scan through them time and again (you know you do it too), my mother-heart awakened to an interesting truth.
The home is like a piece of art. From a distance, people think it's effortless, aesthetically pleasing, and quaint. But if they stepped into it, they would understand that it is crafted from wild vines. Moment by moment, pieces are changing, jutting here or there. The artist's job is to take the mayhem and weave it together into a functional, healthy organism (with minimal shouting). If said artist stepped away for a day or two, she would have a lot of repairing and resetting to do upon her return. Because it's life. And it's live. And it's hard. And it's beautiful.
The pictures depict me cooking dinner, cleaning dinner, helping with homework (which is actually usually Dad's job around here), sweeping floors, managing candy intake, and more. Many of the pictures where I don't physically appear, you can still find remnants of what I've done. Examples of this include ice packs on wounds, water for the toddler's paint, billions of pictures tacked to the walls of my fledgling artist's bedroom, and a basket stocked with fruit that was budgeted and planned to purchase for the family.
Fellow mom, you are vitally important. If someone came to your house to still-shot your day, you would be in half the pictures, and that's a good thing. :)
In my "office," I have a now-dish-water-flecked, dusty card that my church handed out on Mother's Day nearly a decade ago, and I'll end with its message.
"God has called you and gifted you to be the wonderful mother you are. In a special way today may you sense His nearness, rejoice in His love for you, and know the joy you bring to others."
More pictures are coming soon to a Facebook near you!
