My house is loud. Each morning we navigate school lessons while artfully dodging whatever flying objects my one-year-old decides to launch. At noon we lunch on crust-less peanut butter sandwiches while one artist or another serenades us from the iPod dock. And then there are the noises.
I’ve come to the realization that a boy simply cannot move a plastic train around a tiny track without making AT LEAST as much noise as the real train outside.
I kid you not when I say that I have missed the ringing of my cell phone in my pocket because of the noise in the room.
I have no problem with controlled chaos, except when it interferes with my reading. I have the attention span of a toddler, so I prefer to find a cool, quiet room when I need to read–especially when I want to read my Bible. Every day I wait for that rare jewel of a moment when both boys go to sleep so that I can commune with God.
But then something happened this week. As I was teaching my oldest son the importance of reading the Bible, it occurred to me: Why should he believe me if he never sees me reading mine?
Sure, I can tell my sons that I read God’s Word, but wouldn’t it be far better for them to see it?
So this week when the school lessons were done and the peanut butter sandwiches consumed and the simultaneous nap times successfully avoided, I plopped down in the middle of the living room floor with my Bible on my lap. Sure there were noises–lots of ‘em–but I read anyway. And despite the train malfunction which resulted in lots of police car and ambulance activity (and the subsequent gathering of a collection of plastic animals who happened on the scene) I studied God’s Word.
Maybe my boys noticed, maybe they didn’t, but here is what I know: They need to see me read.
Noise is a sign of life and I will praise Him in it.