You know when you’re in church and someone decides that a particular worship song needs some congregational clapping? They start clapping, but they’re clapping on the wrong beat. Then other people hesitantly begin to join in, so now there are several pairs of hands clapping off beat. Then, someone who can actually find the correct beat, starts clapping really loud. Well this confuses the entire congregation so they all one by one start dropping out and just close their eyes and maybe lift a hand or two to stop the awkward.

That’s what it’s like for me when C.J. leaves.

Our rhythm has been interrupted and what’s left is a fumbling for the steady.

For at least the first couple of weeks I catch a glimpse of his truck parked in the drive way as I fix dinner around 5:00 and I feel a fleeting “yay” that he’s home from work. Or, I will find one of his shirts in the laundry and do a double take before I remember that it was I that had worn it to bed the night before, or it was a shirt Lyla had taken to cuddle with.

Soon enough those reflexes will taper off and we will settle into our new, albeit temporary, steady rhythm.

I prefer a consistent routine. It gives me a sense of security, and I know the kids do better when they know what to expect in a day.

I am the metronome of the household. The menial household tasks keep me a constant pulse of: pick up, sweep, wash, fold. The sound of emptying the silverware from the dishwasher becomes my cymbal, and the constant laundry becomes the deep bass kick.

But change is in the air. Every tiny karate chop under my ribs is a reminder that soon a new pair of hands will join in our song.

The reality is, my physical strength is limited. I am reminded daily of this, by a body I barely recognize.

And on particularly weary days, I cannot keep up the rhythm and I have to stop. I have to lay on my left side on the couch watching my sweet snare section building block cities.

This was my position the other day when my Jude came over to me, looked me in the eyes and quietly asked,

“You doing okay?” with the sincerity of a person well beyond his years. He’s not used to seeing his mama still.

I am reminded that not only am I the metronome of the daily routine, but I am also the one from whom they will take their emotional, and spiritual cues. Their shoulders are too small to carry me.

In my weakness and human frailty, I must be at peace. Not pretend “fake it til you make it” peace, because children can smell a fake from a mile away. Genuine, transcending all understanding peace. Peace that can only come from a source that never runs dry.

I pray for peace in this world, so my husband’s job will be uneventful and relatively safe. I pray for peace in my home even though I feel buried in a multitude of incomplete household chores.

From my spot on my left side on the couch I pray and wait, and I marvel in the miniature world of blocks. Then, I feel that flood of promised peace that fills every weary crevasse. I smile at the wonder on my son’s face while I hold his hand next to my belly button so he can feel another type of rhythm:

A faint steady beat coming from tiny hiccups.