This fall, I accidentally began working full time as a tutor/professor/writer. Because my work is stitched together from disparate pieces, the hours added up to more than I anticipated. It’s good work, and each element works synergistically with the others. I’m lucky in this way–every hour I spend writing improves my teaching, and my hours spent in the classroom improve my writing. It’s a delicate dance I’m learning through direct experience.
Because of the fullness of this work, I find myself in a season of usefulness. I measure the days by how many papers I grade, words I write, or pages I read. “How useful have I been today?” is an unspoken refrain that rises subconsciously in me every evening. If a day holds fewer accomplishments than I hoped, I often find myself frustrated, lamenting the time I spent on something that now feels at best silly, or at worst, a complete waste of time.
Often, this frustration rises when I’ve walked the dog instead of grading one last paper, or read for pleasure in lieu of finishing a class assignment. My internal meter, the one that measures the use of my time, flickers wildly when the table begs for dinner, the phone rings, or the unopened magazines I optimistically purchased become yellowed and ringed with the heat of countless teacups.
I justify folding the laundry–this is “work”. And volunteering at church–even better, this is “work for Jesus”. But I shrug at the quiet suggestion from my inner self when she recommends a walk to the park, or writing a poem, or sitting down for breakfast rather than wrapping my toast in a paper towel as I run out the door.
I shrug her voice into silence.
Years ago, I worked as a nurse in a nursing home. It pained me to see so many elderly patients who sat in silence for days, moving from bed to wheelchair to bed again, watching mindless television for stimulation. I knew then, even at twenty-one, that there was something twisted and warped about the way we dismissed the elderly once they’d outlived their “usefulness” in the marketplace or our families or society. It frightened me that one day this might be my fate.
As my ability to accomplish tasks continues to grow and stretch, I find myself increasingly drawn to those things which cannot be measured as useful or purposeful. I enter into this tug of war daily: my work competes with the seemingly useless. The sherbet smear of an autumn sunset, the frost tipped leaves strewn on the lawn, the old mystery novel with crinkled, tired pages, the warm body of the dog draped across my lap, the grocery store flowers wilting in the white ceramic jug, a cup of tea brewed in fine china, the lyrics of a song printed out just so I can sing them.
Through art and nature, I’m able to swing the creaky gate open to a world of beholding rather than measuring. A world that teaches me to love a thing beyond its usefulness, to love it for its beauty, its resonance, its simple, unassuming existence. This world rejects my fixation on utilitarianism, and leads me to love for the sake of loving.
When I learn to love a world bound to beholding beauty, rather than bound to performance, I learn to love God better. I am tempted to love him for his usefulness to me, and to believe that my productivity somehow makes him love me more. I am tempted to believe he doesn’t love me nearly as much when I am at rest. And yet, his love has nothing to do with how useful I am to his Kingdom. He does not need my completed tasks, he simply wants my love and worship.
Perhaps I will write a poem today. Or walk to the park. Or stand under the deep V of geese cutting through cloud and sky. Perhaps when the laundry buzzes, I will gather the bundle of warmth to my body and see the folding as more than work, but as a form of worship.
