After guiding my hand to tie tiny apron strings around her, my daughter busies herself with miniature pots and pans. She is a flurry of culinary activity, feeding me magic soup and dandelion tea. A cookie sheet comes in and out of the oven in record time.
The obnoxious pink hue of the play kitchen is one that my husband declared would never find place in our home when I sat round with our first child, checking off items to add to our baby registry. Four births later, those rules have gone the way of all the parenting rules we were absolutely certain about before holding our first newborn in our arms. The kids’ rooms are peppered with colors that shine bright and happy – just like our memories.
The stove burner lights flash and gurgle as she places the pot just so. Reflecting on these changes has me acutely aware of the passage of time, and my arms ache to wrap around my littlest while she is still small enough to fit neatly in my lap.
“Come here,” I beckon. “I’ll read you the bunny book,” I offer, throwing out irresistible bait.
She barely manages a glance over her shoulder at me to declare with total nonchalance: “I’m too bissy.”
The string of rejection is ameliorated by the smile in my heart at the importance with which she holds her current preoccupations. My heart is pierced by this bittersweet double-edged sword: the adorable seriousness with which she takes her play and the fact that she is clearly parroting a phrase she has heard before when her own requests for cuddles or playtime were similarly rebuffed.
I can’t imagine who could be the most likely candidate.
Guilt pricks at my conscience and my heart sinks a little bit as the tiny aproned chef busying herself about the bustle of her kitchen becomes a mirror reflecting not only my lack of attentiveness to her, but also the ways I’ve neglected my Creator as He’s beckoned lately. All too often, this phrase is my response in the litany of invitations to love throughout my day:
In frustrations with my children… I’m too bissy, Lord.
To honor prayer time together… I’m too bissy. Lord.
To be present to Him in the faces of my children… I’m too bissy, Lord.
Certainly there are mitigating realities that place demands on my time. Meat needs defrosting. Towels need folding. Homeschool lessons need planning, and socks need to matched with a reasonably similar partner.
But do these tasks really preclude my presence with my Maker? What if, instead of all the prescriptive chatter of podcast telling me about the vitality of the sun on my skin each morning, I made space for quiet, for the light of the Son to dawn on my soul?
Do I really need to consume all this content? Is it filling me up? If I’m honest with myself, isn’t it consuming me?
“I’m too bissy,” is my chorus, and its true. It’s true because I make it true.
I choose busy at every opportunity. There isn’t a moment that the Lord doesn’t beckon, doesn’t reach out His arms to draw me onto His lap to allow His love to wash over me.
I want to go to Him. I want to choose the better part.
I’m just too bissy.