replenishing

In the late afternoon, I talk to Zoe on the phone, stretching my legs out in front of me, craning my neck toward the window to savor that beautiful golden hue that becomes the light at near-finish. Zoe and I will meander over miles of thoughts, sharing a pilgrim feast while I hold on my phone the picture she snapped of her current view–that blue, blue sky; that silhouette of trees; her leg carelessly swinging over the edge of a hammock. I set a timer because I know I will need to pull myself out of my chair in time to finish dinner. I tell her that the leaves of my favorite backyard tree have already begun to turn.

Five minutes later, when Riley realizes I am talking to her sister (maybe it’s the mama timbre to my voice or certain phrases that put the call into context), she squeezes her body into the chair beside me, even though, with the phone pressed to my ear, she’ll only barely hear the rise and fall of Zoe’s voice. Riley watches my face and glances at her hands, splaying her fingers flat across her thighs. Zoe sits in that same spot when she’s home, stretching her legs out next to mine, balancing a cup of coffee in one open palm while we talk.

The timer buzzes and the phone jumps against my ear, and I plant my feet on the floor, still listening to something Zoe’s saying about replenishing. I make my way into the kitchen, and, one-handed, I begin to pull out the things I need to finish our homemade pizzas–olive oil and a basting brush, cutting boards, pepperoni, shredded cheese.

“Not everyone needs the same kind of time, and that’s okay,” Zoe’s saying, “but it’s also okay for me to need it.”

I pause, listening, thinking about how often I’ve resented myself for needing replenishing time, thinking how I plan my schedule around every other allotment but that one.

“I just realize that when I don’t plan time for renewing, I end up not being any good for people when I’m with them,” she says, and I nod, even though she can’t see me, because lately, I’ve begun to dread the opportunities that should bring me joy.

I discovered in a deep-dive with God some time ago that when the gospel writers recorded Christ’s longing for our joy, they used a word that really describes a transformative awareness of God’s grace, and I realized that for me, replenishment is like a spiritual checkup for my spiritual eyes. When I start neglecting those appointments with rest, I develop cloudy spiritual cataracts that blur my view of God’s grace. I stop intentionally giving thanks for the generosity of God and teeter dangerously close to the dark heartlands Paul mentioned, where my thinking becomes both futile and foolish. God made me a person who continually needs to be still while He gets my bearings straight.

“That’s real,” I say to Zoe, tilting my head, trying to decide how I will open the bag of pepperoni with only one hand. I need this conversation though, so one hand will have to do, and really, I never actually have enough capacity for what’s in front of me. The difference is only whether I choose to admit that to myself.

I reach for the bag, thinking maybe I’ll use my teeth (hey, needs must), but Riley, who somehow soft-footed her way into the kitchen behind me, intercepts. Still watching me as I listen to Zoe, Riley pulls the bag of pepperoni open and pushes the package back toward my free hand. I glance up at her and smile, and she gives me a wondering look. What?? Immediately, I think of the kind of servant Jesus applauded, who neither needs nor expects any thanks.

“You have no idea how much I needed to talk about this,” I say to Zoe.

Riley picks up the bag of shredded cheese, opens it, and carefully places it near my working hand. She balls up the used packages in a fist and drops them into the trashcan. Riley could have finished the pizzas herself, would have, if I had thought to ask, but like the Christ who bears the yoke with me, she won’t force the issue of being my help.

“It occurs to me that to take time for replenishing,” I continue, “I also have to acknowledge the truth that I can’t get things done on my own. I have to stop pretending I don’t need any help.”

“Yes,” Zoe says simply, and I hear the faint rustling of leaves across the way, and then we set off to climb another hill together.