A Day in the Life of the Faithful Christian Household

“Blessed is the man… [who] delight is in the law of the Lord, and on his law he meditates day and night.”

The parking lot was almost empty.

His shift is over. It felt longer than usual. The day started with an interview for a new position. They could use the money, and less standing would be nice. His feet throb in these old steel-toes. He kicks them off and decides to drive home in his socks. The other guy interviewing is top-notch. He doubts he'll get it. He doesn't want to let his family down. While his feet breathe, he takes a deep breath in the silence of an old, dented-up Camry and prays: "Father, help me provide for my family."

She knows he'll be home soon. She had ambitions for the day. They died when the two-year-old watered the house plants with half a gallon of whole milk and spilled the rest between the loveseat cushions. Still, she got the older two through their math and reading. Only one week behind. Small win. The noodles are boiling on the stovetop, inches from a sink full of dishes from lunch and breakfast. She sighs and prays: "Father, give me strength to keep this place together."

He pulled in the drive, and before he could cut the ignition there was a five-year-old pressing her face against the window. Annoying, but cute. He thought: okay, I can do this. "Hey, darling, have you been good for mommy today?" "Yes. Daddy, where are your shoes? You're so silly!" They walked to the door. He stopped to pick up a plate with a half-eaten peanut butter sandwich being finished off by ants on the walkway.

She saw him through the window and told the seven-year-old to hurry the silverware to the table. Dinner got pushed to 7:25 the night before. Not tonight. She heard him scraping a plate into the kitchen trash. She greeted him with an apology: "Sorry it's a mess in here." "What are you talking about? It looks great." Then: "Where's the milk?" "Oh, yeah. That's a story for later. How'd the interview go?" "Okay, I guess. We'll find out tomorrow. Dinner smells good."

Everyone's hands were washed. The littlest was in his high chair. Steam rose from the bowl of spaghetti and meatballs. 6:40. Not too bad. "Alright, fold your hands." He blessed the food with a short prayer and closed it: "And all God's children said 'amen.'" The little girl reached for the garlic bread and knocked over a full glass of water. She felt it rising in her chest. It had been that kind of day. Then she heard him: "Hey, it's okay. I got it." She let it go. Their oldest said, "At least it's not milk." Everyone but him laughed. "Someone's going to have to catch me up on the milk." Their oldest again: "Our fern got a lot of calcium today." He raised his eyebrow.

The five-year-old informed him they were princesses like Cinderella in the Bible. She clarified: "We started reading Esther this week." He turned to the seven-year-old: "How about you?" "I'm learning about creation and evolution. Did you know they've found dinosaur flesh that's not fossilized?" "I did not." "How about you, Daddy?" He glanced at his wife before smiling at his daughter: "I learned that your teacher isn't just pretty. She's pretty smart." "But Mom is our teacher...oh, I get it."

"Okay. Before dessert, hymn and Bible."

She watched him open his bible. He was tired. She could see it. He did this anyway.

The five-year-old jumped up: "I can get the hymns." Her sister corrected: "Hym-nals." She handed out the battered eBay-purchased hymnals, knocking over a cup in the process. "Oh, I'm sorry." "Sweetheart, it's nearly empty, it's fine." She dfound "Holy, Holy, Holy" and they sang together. Kind of. Something approximating the lyrics. It was pretty rough. He decided to skip the last verse.

"Let's start Psalms tonight. Who wrote Psalms?" "Is it Moses?" "Well, he wrote one, but mostly King David. Listen to Psalm 1." He read through those six verses, stumbling some, doing his best to explain that there are finally only two kinds of people, that meditating on God's word makes you strong, that those who delight in the law are like fruitful trees. The five-year-old interrupted: "Like an apple tree?" "Sure." "What about a pear tree?" "Sure." "What about—" He cut her off: "Darling. Please." He asked if anyone had anything to say that didn't involve fruit trees. No one did. He was quietly relieved. He had hit a wall. He prayed, and they ate slightly burnt peach cobbler.

After a long shower, he came in to tuck the girls in. "Let's pray." The five-year-old: "Oh, can I? Can I?" "Yeah, sure." "Dear God, thank you for mommy and daddy and my cat. I pray I can be like a strong pear tree and love your word. And help daddy get his new job. In Jesus' name, amen." He teared up a little. "Amen. Good night, girls."

He found his wife on the front porch and sat down beside her. She looked at his slightly glassy eyes and leaned her head on his shoulder. "We're actually doing it, right?" "We are. God is good." "Yes, He is."

In the middle of spilled milk and stumbled verses, this is what faithfulness looks like. Not the polished version. Prayer in a parking lot. Noodles on the stove. A tired man opening his Bible with family anyway. This is how a Psalm 1 household gets built. Day by day, step by step. Keep going. He is faithful.

P.S. I wrote this for Church & Family Life's Restore Family Worship campaign which you can learn more about here:

https://restorefamilyworship.com/restore-family-worship

Painting by Marcia Hill