Spinning faster and faster.
Red tulle flounces and tubby pink arms are flung wide with abandon.
She is squealing.
A bubbling, gurgling, ecstatic noise that begins to rumble in me too. We are laughing together. Her spinning. Me laughing, but not. Laughing and cringing at her freedom.
She is slowing.
Tussled hair settles on shoulders. Tulle lights on knees. Arms drop to sides.
And she staggers.
“Me so busy, mummy,” she says.
“You mean dizzy?” I laugh.
Busy. Dizzy. Same difference.
I’ve just spun out of a Megasaurus week where events and responsibilities merged one into another into another. There was a fair whack of troubleshooting, of costume changes, of finding a replacement here and a stand-in there. When people asked, “How’s your week been?” it would have been perfectly appropriate to reply “dizzy” instead of “busy”. Same difference.
Lately God has pressed a word into my mind. Stamp into wax. Finger into clay. Cutter into cookie dough. The word is DELIGHT.
“Take delight in the Lord,
and he will give you the desires of your heart.”
– Psalm 37:4, NIV.
When I consider all the items on my calendar, all the myriad events and responsibilities and catchups and to-dos, in isolation, they are things I love. At some point I’ve said “yes” to them for a reason: because I enjoy them. In most cases anyway.
It’s when the commitments begin ramping like ambulances at the hospital on a Friday night that my breath comes in gasps and I begin to feel dizzy.
Take delight, my God says. Take it. Focus on Him, draw your delight from Him. Then everything else becomes periphery.
And that’s what I’ve done with that word that’s been impressed on my heart. I have acknowledged the delight of serving my God, and then taken it a step further to be clear on the delight of every single thing that crops up in a day.
Recapturing the delight.
Focusing on it.
Speaking to the delight when friends ask what I’ve been up to.
Not replying, “dizzy” or “busy”, but “delightful!” – filled with all the purpose of having people to be with and causes to be part of.
How is this done?
There’s a question I ask in the hectic moments of bundling children into car, clock watching and opening emails that send the heart to visit the stomach.
Why did you say yes?
Not in a cynical, eye-roll kind of way. But to plug into the passion and excitement of the first invitation.
When my aspiring ballerina daughter starts dance classes she will learn the discipline of spotting. Her dance teacher will tell her to find a place for her eyes to focus at the back of the room: a wad of Blu Tack on the wall, a picture, the Exit sign. Then, as she turns pirouettes and fouettes, her eyes will remain focused, her head whipping round to keep her stare rigid. Then, it won’t matter the number of turns, how chaotic her routine appears. She will keep her head, her balance. Eyes fixed.
Just as my eyes must remain fixed on God, and on the delight inherent in every scrap of life.