Last week, I had problems with my car—again.
While I’d scheduled myself to take it in Monday, and to be home in time for bowling, I had things to do first. Mark queried me about this, and then said, “It just seems like you’re doing other things.”
I’m always doing other things.
There are always other things to do.
My day never revolves around a single problem. There’s no clearing my calendar. Every chance to wait is a chance to work, if I’m prepared. Every day has its pressing needs, though they may seem trivial. Like dishes, when I don’t get them done for five days in a row, they need to be done whether I want to or not, whether I have time or not. And it’s not like I can do them while Ben is home to play in my water.
So, yes, there are other things. I get as much done as I can in the time allowed. There’s always more to do. I imagine there always will be.
I can see myself being called home, and me saying, “But wait, no, see I’m not finished…”
There is always more to do.
And sometimes being reminded of that overwhelms me.
So, what did I do? I took a nap.
The car could wait. The dishes could wait.