My life is not orderly. We do not wake in the morning to an outline with sequential bullet points. Usually, we are awoken by the 6:30 child announcing that a potty visit is necessary. I roll out of bed, groggy, trying to stave off the baby's hunger until his siblings allow 5 minutes of sitting down.
This home involves a good deal of books randomly pulled off of shelves by an invisible imp; its floors are crumb and leaf magnets, and somehow there are always, always, apples stashed under the couch.
The people are often crying--tears of hurt, anger, frustration. Yet for every moments of sadness there are twice as many moments of happiness. There are days of instruction and discipline. Then there are days where the only remedy is a long walk in the rain, a strong cup of coffee and prayer. And some days are amazing revelations of fun and industry where the dishes actually get done.
Yet these little people--the rambunctious, mischievous, disobedient, joyful, exuberant souls that they are, wake up every morning with a new vigor to discover, explore, and learn. Their parents are their teachers, their role models, their first loves.
The weeks may blur, current events may be neglected, but as each day folds to a close, I am reminded that there is no better place to be in the world and no better job or ministry to pursue. My mission field is my home.