Two Chairs

I have ordered two chairs in my life with the intention that they would be my own personal chairs. The first chair I wrote about eight years ago in a season of taking care of many tiny children. Allow me to refresh you with my old rest time reflection…

“This {rest time} window in my day is precious to me…so back in January I had a vision. This vision involved a chair. One that I could call my own. One that would make my rest time even more restful. One that I could cozy into without the risk of sitting on a Lego piece or Goldfish crumb. And when I sat in said chair, I could stare dreamily out our big windows as the towering trees swayed and pray and think and be. And then I could reach into the stack of books piled high next to my iced latte on the tiny table next to the beautiful chair and get lost in the pages. And for forty-five minutes, although requests for bubble gum or bottom wipes might be bellowed in my direction from the stairwell, it would not matter because mommy would be in her chair and all would be right with the world.”

My first ordered chair (eight years ago) was to make rest time more rest-filled.

My second ordered chair (eight weeks ago) was to make work time more work-filled.

This working window in my day is precious to me…so back in July I had a vision. This vision involved a chair. One that I could call my own. One that would make work time even more work-filled. One that I could cozy into without the risk of sitting on homework papers or Chromebook chargers. And when I sat in said chair, I could stare eagerly at my big computer as the creative thoughts swirled and I could think and write and be. And then I could reach into that stack of books piled high next to my iced latte on the tiny table next to the beautiful chair and get lost in the pages. (Some things don’t change.) And for two hours, although dryer buzzers and phone ringers might be bellowed in my direction from my devices, it would not matter because Chrissy would be in her chair and all would be right with the world.

I am in a different season now—all of those tiny nappers have grown to be school-goers, and so the chair I ordered was meant to be my writing chair.

When the doorbell rang for delivery for my first chair eight years ago—the one to help me rest better—I looked out the door only to find a small package sitting at my feet. It said it was the chair. But it was definitely not the chair. I had been craving a cozy chair, but wound up with a frying pan in my face instead. Upon trying to remedy this situation, I received a second frying pan, and eventually six months later the actual chair I ordered arrived…broken in multiple places.

When the doorbell rang for delivery for my second chair—the one to help me work harder—I looked out the door to find a large box this time. It said it was the chair. But it was definitely not the chair. This time I received a large heavy nightstand.

“What could all this mean?” I surmised with my husband on our walk one night. It sounds like the beginning of a bad math problem or a lame joke: A lady orders two chairs…instead she receives two frying pans and a nightstand.

What’s the punchline? Sounds like this lady needs to cook more and sleep more!

I recently read in Sue Monk Kidd’s book, Writing Creativity and Soul, about her indecision surrounding how she would decorate her stairwell leading into her writing study. Her husband finally asked her,

“ ‘What’s with you and the staircase? It’s just a staircase.’

‘But it’s not just a staircase,’ I heard myself say. ‘It’s the passage to my study!’

With surprise I realized I wanted to create a portal to my creative life.”

It’s just a chair. But it represents something—a longing to be transported to a place better than the one I am in. I want a better seat—a better view to this life; a more comfortable place to exist, a more inspired entry-point to my days.

Yet I am brought back to the mundane: The old splintered dining chair upon which I sit to write. The grease-stained, scratched-up frying pan from which I cook. The cluttered, dusty nightstand beside the place I lay my head.

We operate out of the ordinary.

We create in the imperfect.

We parent through the interrupted.

We love and serve and bring beauty into this world through the portion we have been given. We exist within the limitations of this life, and God meets us there with a grace that is sufficient and a power that is made perfect in our weakness (2 Corinthians 12:9).

Our sufficiency is not in ourselves or even in our circumstances. And God graciously does not wait for us to muster up perfect conditions before He works in and through us.

I am still waiting on my chair—turns out I might always ache for a better seat on this side of heaven. I am reminded of when C.S. Lewis says, “If I find in myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world.” A world in which a place at the table has been prepared for us—to feast and rest with the One who is seated on His throne.