The Mess Can Wait

Recently, I found myself sitting on the couch, surrounded by toys, blocks, and the kind of joyful chaos that only grandchildren seem able to create.

Christopher was building.

Jonathan and Indie Mae were exploring with him.

Augustino was running around creating his own adventure.

Avila Mae and Lily Mae were spending time together, "excited" about their new bathing suits.

And later, Indie Mae was doing something I almost missed entirely.

She was talking to me.

Showing me her blocks.

Sharing her little world.

Inviting me into a moment that mattered deeply to her.

The problem wasn’t that I was busy.

The problem was that I was tired.

In fact, somewhere in the middle of her storytelling, I managed to fall asleep for about fifteen minutes. When I woke up, the moment was gone.

The blocks were still there.

The toys were still scattered everywhere.

But the invitation had passed.

Earlier, I was watching a different kind of moment unfold.

The grandchildren were in the pool together.

Jonathan and Indie Mae were laughing, splashing, and enjoying one another in a way that only children can.

Christopher was nearby, jumping in and out of the fun, adding his own energy and excitement to the afternoon.

There was no schedule. No agenda. No accomplishment to achieve.

Just joy.

Just family.

Just a moment that could easily be overlooked if your mind was somewhere else.

As I watched them, I realized something.

The greatest gift of that afternoon wasn’t the pool.

It wasn’t the toys.

It wasn’t even the gathering itself.

It was the opportunity to be fully present.

To pay attention.

To notice what was happening right in front of me.

As I reflected on that experience, I was reminded of something I recently read in Mark Buchanan’s book The Rest of God. He writes that many of us believe God wants our attention because He has something for us to do. But Buchanan says he discovered something different.

What God desires most is simply our attention.

Not first our productivity.

Not first our accomplishments.

Not first our service.

Our attention.

To stop.

To look.

To notice.

To experience what He has placed right in front of us.

That is one of the invitations of the Sabbath.

Most of us think the Sabbath is about stopping our work.

But perhaps Sabbath is also about paying attention.

Paying attention to God.

Paying attention to people.

Paying attention to the gifts hidden inside ordinary moments.

Psalm 46:10 says, “Be still, and know that I am God.”

Stillness is not merely the absence of activity.

It is the presence of attention.

How often do we miss what is right in front of us because we are thinking about what comes next?

The next project.

The next responsibility.

The next appointment.

The next mess we need to clean up.

The next item on the to-do list.

Yet Jesus repeatedly demonstrated a different way of living. He noticed people others overlooked. He stopped for interruptions. He paid attention to moments others rushed past. And because He paid attention, people experienced His presence.

Watching the video later, I noticed something beautiful.

The floor was a disaster.

Toys everywhere.

Blocks covering the room.

Pool toys scattered outside.

Evidence of a day fully lived.

But what struck me was this:

The mess wasn’t the problem.

The mess was proof that something wonderful had happened.

The mess told a story.

Children had laughed.

Cousins had played together.

Conversations had been shared.

Memories had been made.

And the cleanup afterward wasn’t really a chore.

It was a celebration.

A reminder that relationships had grown.

That joy had filled the room.

That time had been spent on things that truly matter.

Maybe that’s one of the lessons God is teaching me in this season.

The dishes can wait a little longer.

The toys can stay on the floor a little longer.

The mess can wait.

Because if we are paying attention, we discover that the present moment is often God’s greatest gift.

And if we blink, or in my case, fall asleep for fifteen minutes, we might miss it entirely.