I was laying in bed just now trying to convince myself that I was well rested after being up half the night with a sick baby when I had a strong impression from the Lord. It went something like this. I love books. Lurve them. But for as long as I can remember, they have been the portal for escape. Box of dry cereal and a stack of books and I was a happy kid, am a happy adult. My mom can attest to this (you know who you are). But somewhere along the way, books became more than an escape, which I would argue is not bad in and of itself, and became a form of escapism. When I’m in the midst of a good book, I’m mentally wishing the kids would disappear and leave me alone so I can get back to it, that my husband would find a good baseball game on tv so I can sneak off to the bedroom guilt free and read. Books are good. Too many books are not. This is what my bookshelves look like, even after taking three bags full to Schulers yesterday and selling them to the used book department there:
Most shelves are two books deep and I’m still running out of room. Which makes me very happy. Someday I’d like to live in a house with wall to wall built in bookshelves in every room, crammed full of delightful things to read and browse, but that’ll have to wait. Besides, this reselling thing with Schulers was very lucrative:
Currently in love with the Percy Jackson series thanks to a good friend (you know who you are) who has been bugging me for months and my mom recommended the hardcover after I recommended it here, so I bought it so I’d have my own copy, and, ok, the Lego book isn’t mine, but it made two Lego obsessed boys agree that the trip across town was totally worth it and it came with a much-coveted Luke Skywalker minifigure who now is enjoying joint custody. Him and his tiny light saber. Oh, there was a suncatcher kit too that Tessie and I made last night but it’s hanging from her window already and I’m not going to wake her up with my flash just to show you, sorry.
The books. So, God gave me this strong impression that I was to give up the books for awhile and focus on this home and these people who live here with me. This is what is precious and sometimes I miss it for having my nose in a book. Dan and I are headed to San Francisco in a month and I’m shelving the habit until then, which means that the great books I got yesterday will be waiting for me to crack their spines on the long ride out west. Until then, I’m continuing on with reading the Bible chronologically, which my sister (you know who you are) highly recommended and I’m totally enjoying, except for Leviticus. No one enjoys Leviticus. The deal is Jesus writing the story of my life and I want to be totally engaged in it, not part time but really engaged. In these amazing kids I get to be with, and this man I get to do life with even when life is crazy which it is most of the time, but I’d rather do crazy with him than anyone else. I’m looking to pour myself into them, the boys who have made a bed on the floor next to their Lego bin so they can wake up early and get back to it and Tess who has taken to replying to my every question with, “Yes Mudder” like a penitent, which she is not, and Lucy whose sweet disposition make me want to bury myself in her neck and never come out. Never. This is the good stuff and I’m diving in. So, this is me. Being real. Engaged.