Eleven-minute Showers

So Jacob served seven years to get Rachel, but they seemed like only a few days to him because of his love for her.

GENESIS 29:20

“ELEVEN MINUTES.”

Jim tapped his watch and pointed in the direction of a downstairs shower. “Sarah’s been in the shower for eleven minutes.”

Jim was a pastor with whom I met weekly for prayer and Bible study. At the time I had just one small child, who needed to be bathed about every half hour. Hearing about a kid who cleans herself sounded to me like it was right next door to heaven. Jim’s face, however, showed the taut signs of prolonged frustration. I had no idea how long showers for thirteen-year-olds were supposed to last, but Jim’s tone made it clear that eleven minutes breached the limit.

As years passed and I became the bearer of a mortgage and the father of even more kids than Jim had, I began to understand Jim’s concern. I found myself coming home from work and being able to spot my house a mile away—it was the one with every light on.

One day, Lisa found me going from room to room, muttering under my breath, and she asked me what was wrong.

“Nothing,” I said. “I’m just trying to find a light bulb that’s not turned on. I don’t want it to feel left out.”

Several years later, Sarah was ready to begin her first year in college. Jim and his wife had two daughters and an unusually close family, so all four of them got into the car for the two-day trip out to school. They stopped midway at a campground, and as Jim sat in front of the campfire, it suddenly hit him: Sarah won’t be living with me anymore. Living on a tight pastor’s salary, Jim couldn’t afford to fly Sarah home before Christmas break. Many months ago, the fourteen weeks of separation didn’t sound all that long; now, it felt like a decade.

Jim’s water and electric bills would surely go down, but as he recounted the emotions of that parting, I had the feeling that having a little extra money in the bank account would feel like small consolation, indeed.

My own revelation occurred back when I worked outside the home. My kids were young enough that my evening arrival still generated a big splash. I could hear the peals of delight as soon as I got out of my car, and I almost never made it through the front door without having to step over three tiny bodies.

One winter evening, I drove up to the house, and there wasn’t a single light on. At first I thought there must have been a power outage or something, but our neighbors’ homes were lit up.

I walked into an empty house. Lisa and the kids had visited some friends and were stuck in traffic. The silence felt overwhelming. The house, dark and empty, looked like a completely different place. I did something I thought I’d never do. I turned most of the lights on to welcome Lisa and the kids home.

That incident became one of those “lightning” moments when God impresses a truth on your heart, when the mundane becomes prophetic and time stops long enough for a profound thought to slip through. I couldn’t articulate the thought, but I realized that every blessing comes with a burden.

If God were to take my wife and children home, I’d have a much smaller electric bill—and a hole in my heart the size of Texas.

I soon realized that in just about every complaint lies the foundation of thanksgiving. The fact that you’re upset because of a rainy day is due in part to the fact that you’re physically able to go outside and enjoy the weather. Talk to a person who’s confined to a hospital, and you won’t find someone complaining about the weather.

The fact that you’re so busy assumes you have a job. The fact that there’s a load of laundry means someone is alive to get it dirty. The fact that you have problems at church means people are actually coming to your church.

It really comes down to how we choose to look at it. God could remove the burden—but if he did, he’d also take away the blessing. Jacob worked seven long years to marry Rachel—but because of his love for her, those seven years seemed like less than seven days. He didn’t see the burden; he remained fascinated by the blessing.

This week, whenever you feel tempted to complain because your kids are being kids—making messes, not replacing the toilet paper, leaving the lights on, messing up your car—ask God to remind you of the blessing behind the burden. A clean house, a smaller bill, and a spotless car aren’t nearly as satisfying as a family filled with love.

Heavenly Father, please help us to recognize the blessing behind every burden. Help us to be thankful that we have children who make messes and responsibilities that make us tired. To remove every burden would be to remove many blessings. Thank you for the fullness of family life. In Jesus’ name, amen.