Motherhood and Muffin Tops : The Work of Our Hands

The other day, I drove by the church that housed the Christian school that my brothers and I attended during our elementary years. I looked over at the far corner of the parking lot- the area that served as home plate for our kickball field. The large front lawn where we, girls, would sit in the grass and make wildflower chains during free time. The old playground area where we’d see how far we could jump out of the swings. There are a lot of memories in that church that was once my school.

For some reason, I started thinking about the special jobs that would be given to us there. Being a small school, there was no cafeteria. Lunch was catered and delivered on individual plates wrapped in foil and we ate in our classroom at our desks. There was a large refrigerator in a common area that held little cartons of “white” and chocolate milk. So, every week, two people from each class were chosen to go get the milk and two to go and get the plates of food and bring them back to their class. The milk people would take the milk order down to the refrigerator and count out the right amount of chocolate and white milk cartons- counting and recounting for accuracy- and then bring them back to the class on a tray. There was one person on each end of the cumbersome tray so to not risk any lactose disaster. It was an important job to take that little sheet of paper with those vital numbers written by the teacher and to come back with the correct white/chocolate milk breakdown. I mean, if someone ordered chocolate milk to drink with their spaghetti, then they expected chocolate milk and if somebody ordered two cartons of white, then, by golly, they wanted to get their full .30 worth. The accuracy of the milk people was vital to class hydration and, really, the overall quality of their education. It was the same with the lunch order. The lunch kids were to go down with their tray and give the caterer the number of plates with which they were expected to return. Depending on what was being served that day, the numbers could be higher if it was something particularly good like hamburgers or lower if more kids opted to bring their Holly Hobbie and Evel Knievel lunchboxes to avoid the fish filet. I can’t put into words how excited I’d be when it was my week to have a job. It was a feeling of “If I don’t bring the children their food or drink, who will?” It was my mission. I’d been tapped for it and it was a good feeling.

There were other jobs given in that little school building that gave us purpose. We all know the bittersweet responsibility of being selected class monitor when the teacher needed to leave the room. Basically, she was leaving class security in your hands until she returned. If mayhem and bedlam broke out, while she was gone, well, it happened on your watch. You’d rip out a piece of paper from your spiral notebook, have your pencil ready in the writing position, and keep your eyes and ears open for any funny business. Oh, the responsibility and the burden of that pencil. Wanting to do a good job securing the premises for the teacher, but the weight of causing someone to sit inside during recess was a load that cannot be overstated. Invariably, there would be some kid whose name, not only ended up on your paper, but also had a string of check marks beside it for additional offenses. There were some who could really rack up some checks by their name. As burdensome as the job could be, at times, there was a sense of fulfillment and purpose knowing that you’d been chosen for it and it was important.

Besides milk duty, probably another favorite was being asked to deliver or pick up something from the office for the teacher. Of all the kids in the class, she’d decided you were the one and would send you on your way with an envelope to deliver or a stack of freshly mimeographed sheets to retrieve. When you held that envelope in your little hands, you imagined what kind of top secret, highly critical information it contained. Sometimes, it was to deliver the day’s lunch and milk money and it felt like your job was just slightly less essential than the man in the armored truck. You were tasked with getting whatever it was safely and securely to the highest school officials- of course, taking the slowest route to do so as the high pressure job did have its obvious perks. And if the job was to bring back the day’s mimeographed worksheets, well, you had all the pleasure of holding the warm papers in your hands and taking the first whiff of the damp blue ink. Nothing was better than being given a job that implied a level of trust and getting it done.

Kids like to have jobs to do, but we all really thrive on having tasks and a purpose- especially those that we feel like God has given to us specifically. In my life, most of my callings or assignments from Him have been made obvious to me as they’ve appeared clear in their timing and my placement, or their alignment with my particular resources. Whether the assignment was a specific person or a need or a task, they always seemed to quietly draw me in as if to say, “hey, Joni, this is something YOU need to do.” Speaking to that little elementary girl’s heart that lives inside of my 53 year old body, it still gives me a sense of purpose and urgency to have a quiet charge with my name on it.

As we get older, we start thinking more about making our days count. Maybe because we begin to realize that we don’t get as many as we once thought or that they really pass a lot more quickly than they once did. We have more of an urgency to fill our time with things that matter. With the kids grown and being retired from working, I find myself with more time on my hands. I’ve had some space open up in the last few months as tasks were completed or needs were met or circumstances changed and I’ve been praying, since then, not for time-fillers, but for some new meaningful assignments. I’ve kind of felt like I did back when the teacher was looking around the room, trying to decide who to pick to erase the board and I’d have my hand up and waving it. “Me, me. Let me.” I’m ready for new tasks to come up that bring my name to the mind of my Creator. He’s been slow in making those known to me, but I know they’ll become quietly apparent in His timing as they have in the past. Until I hear my name called, I’ll just keep doing what I know He wants from me in the waiting.

“May the kindness of the Lord our God be upon us; And confirm for us the work of our hands; Yes, confirm the work of our hands. Psalm 90:17 ASB