Tired. But Still Here.

 

I'm tired.

Not the kind of tired that a good night's sleep fixes. Although, for the record, I'd be willing to test that theory if someone could arrange eight uninterrupted hours.

I'm talking about the tired that lives somewhere behind your eyes. The kind that gets up with you in the morning, follows you into the kitchen, and asks if we're seriously doing this all over again.

Apparently, we are.

So I get up.

I pray. Sometimes beautifully. Sometimes it's more of a sleepy negotiation with God about how much coffee a human being should reasonably require to function.

I walk the dogs. Feed the dogs. Make breakfast for the kids. Erin handles the backpacks, lunches, shoes, and everything else required to get actual human beings out the door. If I were in charge, somebody would leave with one shoe and half a backpack.

The dogs, incidentally, have absolutely no appreciation for how much work goes into maintaining their lifestyle.

Then I get ready for work.

And here's something I don't want to forget.

What a privilege it is to have somewhere to go.

I've lived long enough to know that work isn't guaranteed. Neither is purpose. Neither is being needed.

So I go.

Some mornings I'm at a church, helping families navigate faith, grief, questions, and the thousand little things that keep a parish running. Other hours I'm working with men trying to put their lives back together. Men carrying stories that don't fit neatly into a conversation. Men who sometimes just need someone to listen without trying to fix everything.

Two very different places. Not so different people.

Some days I leave one job, eat whatever I can manage in the car, and head to the other. By the time I get home, twelve or fourteen hours have disappeared. Six days a week. Sometimes seven.

And somewhere between answering emails, listening to people's worries, making plans, changing plans, and wondering how it's only 11:17, I remember that I once prayed for the opportunity to be useful again.

Funny how God answers prayers without necessarily consulting our preferred schedule.

Eventually, I come home.

The dogs need walking again because apparently their first walk expired.

There's dinner to figure out. Kids to check on. Conversations to have. A house that somehow generates laundry even when nobody is looking.

And somewhere in the middle of all that, there's a marriage.

A beautiful, complicated, occasionally exhausting marriage between two people trying to give everyone else what they need while hoping there's something left for each other.

Erin works harder than I do. I'm convinced of it.

Some nights we manage to talk. Other nights we're two exhausted air traffic controllers exchanging logistical information.

Who's picking her up? Did you sign that form? Did the dog eat? Which dog?

Never mind.

Sometimes I catch myself looking at Erin across the room, realizing we've spent the entire day taking care of everyone and everything except each other.

And I miss her a little.

Which is a strange thing to say about someone sitting ten feet away.

If we're lucky, we watch fifteen minutes of television together. Usually something we've already seen because neither of us has the mental capacity to learn a new plot.

Then bedtime. More prayers. A little quiet. And the familiar inventory of everything I didn't get done.

The email. The conversation. The bills. The people I meant to call. The things I should have handled differently.

And that question that always seems to find me in the dark.

Was it enough?

I don't know.

For years, I measured a good day by how much I accomplished. The problem is that everything is never done. Which meant I was quietly convincing myself that almost every day wasn't enough.

What a terrible way to measure a life.

Especially when I think about what I almost missed today.

My daughter telling me a story that took seven minutes longer than necessary. Erin laughing at something I said. The first sip of coffee. A goodnight from down the hallway. Even the dog sniffing the same patch of grass for the fourteenth time.

None of it pays the bills. None of it solves what I'm worried about.

But I would miss every bit of it if it were gone.

I still worry about money. About the future. About whether I'm doing enough, earning enough, loving enough.

And I still ask God questions He seems perfectly comfortable leaving unanswered.

Tonight, the kids are asleep. The dogs are finally quiet. Erin is beside me. I've said my prayers, although I'm fairly certain a few sounded more like complaints.

Tomorrow the alarm will go off. I'll be tired. I'll get up anyway.

Not because everything is okay. Not because I've figured out how to balance any of this...but still trying...

But because one day, I suspect, I'll miss these ordinary, exhausting days.

The noise. The mess. The kids needing me. The dogs needing absolutely everything. Erin sitting ten feet away.

I'm tired. Still worried and hopeful.

And trying to remember that the life I'm so exhausted from living is also the life I'm so grateful to have.

Maybe that's enough for today.