Interruption.

Even the sound of the word is terse and irritating. Perhaps a million times in my life, I’ve been “in the zone,” uber-focused on some meaningful (or meaningless but self-satisfying) task, when some lesser necessity burst upon my senses, barking its demands. “Emergency! Listen to me! We’re out of soy milk! Short Son is aggravating me. The toilet is overflowing.” These and so, so many more.

Le Sigh. Even typing those tidbits annoyed me. Aren’t there any welcome interruptions anymore? I long for those oxymoronic blessings. Sign me up! Let me run into friends I haven’t seen for years.  When the doorbell rings, have a delivery man present me with a ten pound box of those French truffles I discovered in Lithuania. Mmm. Or best of all, allow a tiny hand to ensconce itself in mine as I hear, “Read to me, Mommy.”

Over the last two weeks, as I’ve been neck deep in the waters of Everybody-needs-me, God has graciously been (re)teaching me about the way He delights in interrupting the mundane with the extraordinary. Oh, it would be nice if these interruptions would clue me in, maybe wear an identifying sandwich board: “I’m from your Heavenly Father. You don’t want to ignore me.”

Sadly, no. The best interruptions arrive incognito, masquerading as their oft-infuriating cousins.

Recently, I had carved out a chunk of writing time and was guarding it like the treasure it is to a Mommy of four. I was all but toting weapons. Boyfriend-Who-Is-My-Husband was away, and everyone knew the deal. “Tonight, as soon as we’re in bed, Mommy will write and write and write.” Giant cheered for me; Bean bounced with vicarious anticipation; Short Son kept patting my back. “You’ll do great, Mom.” Even Smalls was super cooperative. He knew. He did.

But then The People came. Boisterous people who laughed and chatted for what felt like too long. My knuckles turned white as the kiddos’ bedtime drew nearer. I could’ve felt violated, infringed upon. But then I asked God to show me what He was doing, and how my kids and I could make The People feel welcome and loved. Each of us shared encouragement in the way we know best. Smalls held hands and cupped cheeks, offering dimpled smiles and soft chatter. Giant and Bean hosted their hearts out. Short Son laughed a lot. At the end of the night, when The People disbursed, the kiddos and I thanked God for that sweet opportunity. Honestly, each of us felt blessed. (And I got in ten minutes of writing that night anyway, because I don’t go to sleep unless I’ve written something. Anything. Plus, I had a heart full of words, because the feeling and the lesson I’d learned needed some documentation.)

It makes one wonder, it does. Would every interruption prove to bless me if I took a moment to pause and ask how God wanted me to respond? What do you think?