Around this time of year, my social media feed is filled with graduation photos, award ceremonies, and other posts from proud parents. I have to admit that I was not a terribly humble kid in primary and secondary school, and awards day was one of my favorite days out of the year. Schools create awards for everything. You didn’t miss a day of class—award. You ran one time around a track—award. You read a book or two—award. I remember standing there beaming (not sure if it was my pride, my braces, or my sparkly rainbow sweater) as the principal announced certificate after certificate for that year. Today, I’m sure that those piles of certificates are keeping the dust and spiders company in my parents’ basement. Yet on that day, those awards meant so much to me, because it recognized all the little things I had done throughout the year.
This past Sunday was Mother’s Day, and it was easy for me to be tempted to want a similar ceremony. A certificate for approximately five hundred loads of dishes done, two hundred loads of laundry folded, and one thousand meals prepared. A certificate for not grumbling when I picked rice up again off the floor. A certificate for the fastest I rushed a toddler to the toilet when she told me she needed to go “poo poo.” I guess someone decided to save a tree, though, for a pile of cardstock awards is nowhere to be found.
Sometimes when changing a diaper for the tenth time that day, I can ask the question of what’s the point of all those daily mundane tasks. I can believe that God has gifted me with certain talents and a desire to do “great things,” but I feel behind as I look at other women (on Instagram, in my church, etc.) who are admired for doing faithful tasks that I can’t do right now in my season of life. I see other women a few years ahead and wonder if I’m already behind in doing something spiritually amazing, something worthy of more Instagram followers. Then I look at the work in my hands today and wonder if it even matters.
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