Delight, Even Here

My Dearest Friend,

I’ve just finished my tasks for the day and am settling into this pocket of time to write to you. The curtains are pulled, the fire in the wood stove burning steadily, candles lit, the house quiet—aside from the sound of brewing coffee (decaf, I know that’s controversial; don’t cancel me).

And I’ve had a question on my mind the last day or so:

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How do you delight in the everyday when the everyday isn’t delightful?

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On Sunday, I was doing last minute packing to get myself and my family ready for a work trip. On Monday, I got out of bed to discover my little Archie burning up, a fever of 102. And so began this unforeseen week at home with the boys.

No plans. No expectations from beyond the home. My days were wrapped up with the monotony of sick children and these little tucked-away moments to read, write, or just rest in stillness.

Put that way, it all sounds so quaint, but the reality of it has not felt so.

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Four days into this seemingly never-ending sick week, and I’m grateful for the direction Dad gave me to use the times alone to connect with Him rather than Netflix binging or mindless scrolling.

However, it hasn’t all been the perfect picture of abiding and delighting in the present, communing with Him. In the monotonous hours of tending sickbeds, I’ve been wrapped up with socials, learning algorithms, testing out new strategies—spending a lot of time absent in mind and spirit.

Now, friend, I’m not trying to communicate that all of that is bad. There are times to invest, times to work, times to be creative in strategy.

However, as I lay in my bed last night, struggling to find sleep after another tedious day, I realized how absent I’d been. In the quiet moments when the boys were in bed, it was easy to engage in meaningful pursuits and the presence of God. But during the rest of the day, I did what was needed for two sick boys and outside of that, almost disappeared mentally into the world of my phone.

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I was reminded of this concept of delighting in the mundane, the everyday ordinary moments, that I love. I don’t know how many times I’ve talked about it on here or other platforms (read A Mole & A Flower or The beauty hidden in monotony for a few of my thoughts on it), but reflecting on the last week, I felt disingenuous. Could I honestly say that was how I’d been living?

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The question lingered.

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When plans fall through, when sickness dominates, when bones are broken?
Or worse, when friends betray, when life is not what you expected it to be, when your body fails, when cancer consumes?

Delighting in the mundane is such a nice notion when your ordinary days are obviously delightful—simple joys, sunshine, slow mornings, full tables and full bellies. It’s easy to be fully present when the present is so appealing.

But what about when your circumstances are lackluster, when life disappoints, when what’s before you is unpleasant? Wouldn’t it be much easier to disengage? To find a means to escape?

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Maybe I miss out on some discomfort—but I also miss out on His presence.

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The issue I find here, dear friend, is that when I disengage, I disengage not just from the boredom, discomfort, or pain of my present situation, but from Jesus in that moment. From the voice of my Shepherd, what He’s wanting me to see and hear from Him in the present.

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So we’ve identified the struggle and the dilemma—but what’s to be done? Do I just set my phone aside—or whatever unhealthy form of distraction or escape you would put in its place—and grin and bear it?

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Well, I think I may have found a small way forward—a tactic for the days that aren’t easy to be present in.

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What we need is a rewiring.

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A new pathway formed in our brains. I’m not a scientist or psychologist, but I do find it fascinating that our brains can form new neural pathways—new habits, new ways of thinking.

So when I’m faced with a present that creates in me a desire to escape, I can fight that urge with gratitude.

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Let me give you a very current, relevant example: Phin and Archie are sick. They’ve been sick for four days now with seemingly no end in sight. We’ve barely left the house, and a week I thought could be filled with fun plans to make up for the fact that we’re missing out has been filled with lethargy, gnarly coughing, and grumpiness.

My first impulse is to find any way to pass the time, therefore creating noise and distraction that keeps me from noticing what God is doing and saying in the present. This is my current neural pathway.

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But implementing the gratitude tactic looks like this:

“Dad, thank you that I get to mother these two little boys through sickness. Thank you that they have a mother who loves them. Thank you that we have a home to rest and be sick in. Thank you for guiding us in Your wisdom and omniscience to stay at home, knowing how long this sickness would remain.”

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Or, another current example: I was left behind on a trip that would have given me the opportunity to visit to a city I’ve never been in. I am missing out on a shared experience with my colleagues and students because I am a mother, because of sickness.

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Gratitude tactic:

“Dad, thank you that you always have my best in mind. Thank you that if it were Your best for me to go on the trip, I would have gone, and the fact that I remain at home means that this was Your best for me. Thank you for the several sacred windows of time it has given us to spend time together. Thank you for protecting me and my boys from what could have come of us going anyway.”

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As I again and again respond in gratitude, new neural pathways are being paved, and I have remained fully present to the moment, fully awakened, not just to the unpleasantness of it but to the richness that Jesus has in store for me, even in what’s uncomfortable.

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Wasn’t it through the greatest pain, the deepest loss, that Jesus made a way for us to experience the greatest of delights?

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After all, dear friend, wasn’t it through the greatest pain, the deepest loss, that Jesus made a way for us to experience the greatest of delights? Shouldn’t we also delight in the moments, no matter how small, that we can press into His suffering, knowing how deeply He empathizes with us? For He does, more than you know.

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So I invite you to hold me accountable, dear friend, to not only maintain the sentiment of delighting in the mundane when it’s easy, but to be fully present to the moments that are, at first, painful, practicing gratitude for the silver linings. And I invite you, dear friend, to do the same.

I think we will begin to recognize Jesus—His voice, His thoughts—more clearly when we choose to be present.

With love,
Rachel

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P.S. I want to clarify that what I’m advocating for is not the mentality of some past generations. This idea that we should never dwell on the injustices of life, but instead cover them with gratitude like a bandaid on a festering wound. This is why, when I began to list my cancer journey as an example, I quickly backpedaled—because there are some situations, some griefs, that require us to journey a bit before we can see the silver lining. And that’s okay. We can be grateful for Jesus’ presence, His goodness, while struggling with confusion, despair, maybe even anger.

Shauna Niequist (an inspiration to me) talks about this idea of pouring out our vinegar in order to get to the oil. You know how the vinegar and oil separate, and the vinegar rises to the top? Envision you bringing your complaints, your grievances to Jesus like the vinegar being poured out to get to the oil at the bottom. The goodness, the joy, the delight in His presence.

This is often how I enter solitude. I begin by pouring out my vinegar. But in the big picture, I think Jesus invites us to bring our grievances, big or small, to Him. Stay tuned for more on this in my next letter, dear friend.

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Once again, the letters I referred to earlier:

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