It's Always the Little Stuff

It's the smallest of small stuff that wears me down. Like when the do-over chores need doing-over before I'm even done. (This is particularly applicable in the leaf-clean-up department.)

And like worrying the dog might be sick--and scheduling an appointment with a new vet--and then being perfectly on time in leaving the house with the two kids and the dog--only to find the car won't start. Just a click, click, click like a tsk, tsk, tsk--scolded by my own car for forgetting I left the keys in and the auxillary running so Dani could finish listening to "I Know A Chicken" while I unloaded the groceries.

And then there are the mice that keep finding their way in, the brand new appliance that has to be fixed for our tenants, the husband getting home from work in the middle of the night, the not sleeping, the nightmares with kid one and the potty issues with kid two, the breathing issues with the dog. And all this little stuff teams up, puts grainy heads together to form sandpaper and wears, wears, wears that happy-go-lucky layer down.

And it's there, underneath, when the happy layer is gone. It is there my choosing begins. Will the scraping yield joy, natural and smooth, the kind that counts blessings and chooses gratitude?

Or will the sanding uncover the ugliest mold, the rot of whining, snapping, sniping, worrying?

Oh, it's the little stuff. It's always the little stuff.

If I am not consciously fighting the battle, then I have already lost it. If I am not choosing joy over and over, then I default always and again to ugliness and angst.

But sometimes, sometimes the small stuff saves me. Like when I'm in the middle of an ever-undone chore, and I catch a glimpse of a spontaneous game of tackle "football", when I turn off the motor and hear cackling coming from the pile of miniature arms and legs.
When I see the tights that will never again be white. When I pray my heart will never again be hard.

Oh, it's the little stuff. It's always the little stuff.

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