So it’s the last week of school. The last week! You’d think our house would be buzzing with cheerful enthusiasm and playful banter.
But, no. We are dragging ourselves to the finish line. While I did wake-ups this morning, one of the kids whined, “Can’t I just skip the last week?” Another one muttered, “I know, I know, I know… brush my teeth and make my bed.” But then he did neither.
I feel like I’ve been saying the same things for the last 176 school mornings in a row. Hitting the snooze button on my alarm, then getting up anyway. Trudging downstairs to get breakfasts ready, laundry started, dishwasher emptied, lunches packed. Giving the same encouragement, the same warnings, the same instruction. And I’m tired. So very tired.
I know how the kids feel. I’d like to skip this week, too, but we can’t! We have to soldier on, rain or shine, live or die.
I’ve been trying to think of why I love the last week of school so much less than the first week. The first week, I’m bubbling over with questions about the teachers, the lockers, the friends. I’m reading the Friday Folder with great interest, hoping I don’t miss anything. Whereas this week, I am completely unsure where the Friday Folder has gone, and can’t bring myself to care. Why does it all seems like an encore to a really bad concert?
I think it’s the sameness. The absolute dreariness of already knowing what the remaining days will bring, based on the patterns that were locked down in October. In summary, I find ‘sameness’ that goes on and never ends to be dull and mundane and unbearable.
I must remember this the next time I learn that something is going to change–that ‘sameness’ will be swapped out for something new. Like a new pastor or a new neighbor or a new soccer coach or a new small group. The thought of new replacements always makes my stomach churn. I’m convinced I won’t like the new as well as I like the old. The old is comfortable. It’s settling and sure.
But I think God looks at my changeless, comfortable life like a school year that needs to end. An encore to a bad concert. He doesn’t want me to be settled and comforted and contented by sameness. HE wants to be my comfort; my constant in the middle of change. I think that’s why he says: