Sabbath: The Story of How I Have NEVER Used Woolite.

It is clear that my life is full, busy, and often chaotic.  I am a wife, mother of six children, occupational therapist, childcare director, and graduate student.

Aside from a few other questions, like: "Are you crazy?", and "Are they all yours?", I often get asked "How do you do it all?".

The truth is, I don't.

I was recently sitting in the stands of a gymnastics invitational.  These events are FOUR. HOURS. LONG.  During those four hours,  I get to see my child compete, in all of her glory, for approximately one hundred and eighty seconds.  Striking up conversations with other parents is not only entertaining, it is crucial to survival.

I was talking with a few friends, passing the time, when one of them asked me: "When you hand wash Olivia's gymnastics leotard, do you use Woolite or regular detergent?".  My brain went haywire. WHEN? I hand wash? Detergent? Woolite?  Woolite and I have never even met.  I have never hand washed anything.  I almost made something up, I was so close to lying, because I was so embarrassed.

But I have listened well to my make believe, internet friend @Momastery, and I have committed myself to being a #truthteller, so I stuttered something like:

"I wash it in the washing machine, probably with dish towels, and sheets that have been peed on. No, let me revise that. My children wash it in the washing machine, probably with dish towels, and sheets that have been peed on, because I really don't do laundry, very much, at all."

The truth is, I have NEVER used Woolite.  I have NEVER hand washed anything.  I mostly don't do laundry, because I have taught my offspring to do laundry.  I haven't taught them perfectly, but it gets done.

There are so many things that I don't do.  "How do you do it all?" is a question that I almost laugh at. Because, in our home,  there is no Woolite, there is no hand washing of clothes, and laundry is done haphazardly by young children.  In fact, there is very little happening here at the Muir house, except love, life, and relative chaos.

I value a clean and tidy home, prompt and timely attendance to things, responsibility, healthy eating, and structured routines.  I really, honestly do.  But I don't always do them. In fact, sometimes I intentionally choose not to do them.

I often think about the Sabbath.  A time set apart for rest.  My family and I observe the Sabbath on Sundays by attending church, worshiping with friends, and joining together with family for lunch.
These actions are "set apart" for Sundays.  They are special traditions which remind us of the holiness of the day.

Although the Sabbath is formally observed on one, singular day, I have found myself extending it into all of my days.  By observing moments of Sabbath, space is carved out of my ordinary life to make room for the extraordinary.  I naturally, yet intentionally, choose not to do many things, like Woolite. Woolite and I will never be friends. It's not because Woolite isn't friendly or useful, but because Woolite would fill space in my life that I choose to fill with rest.

Look what happens as a result: Peed sheets, dish towels, and gymnastics leotards, join in communion, all together, in the washing machine.  The dazzling, bejeweled leotard is dancing with the urine-soaked bedclothes and the greasy rags that smell of dish water.  It's beautiful, right?  It's the extraordinary, mixing with the ordinary, right there in my Maytag.   My laundry would not have had this experience if the stunning gymnastics leotard was set apart and washed with it's own kind.

So I rest in those moments, setting myself apart from worldly expectations, and allowing space for extraordinary moments.  I allow life to happen, letting my dirty rags mix together with my beautiful garments in a tumultuous cycle.   I rest, knowing that my young children have been given, and have fulfilled, responsibility.  I rest, knowing that my gymnast's athletic body will be graced by a leotard washed in love and life, if not in Woolite.

I know and embrace that I simply cannot do all of the things, all of the time.  I do some of the things, some of the time.  The rest is Sabbath.

THE. REST. IS. SABBATH.

There she is, the jeweled beauty, resting with the filthy, dirty dishrags. 

P.S. This story was in no way intended to offend Woolite, or those who use it.

P.S.S.  Other things not done in the Muir house: Making the laundry move from the dining room table.  See above.

My Ordinary Life

My name is Sarah Muir.  I was born to my young, newlywed parents in the late seventies.   We lived in a small town.   My mom stayed at home, and my dad worked at a machine shop.  I have two sisters, and a brother.  We lived within a stones throw of grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins.

I lived the lower middle class American dream.  We had everything we needed, and nothing we didn't. There was Sunday morning church, family dinners, and picnics. So many picnics.

I graduated from high school with a three point something GPA and the ambition to go to college.  I was the first in my family to go to college, the first to leave our hometown, and later, the first to return.  

I married my love when I was just 21 years old.  My parent's house was on one side of Main Street. He and I bought a house on the opposite side of Main Street.  We have children, jobs and a mortgage.  
I am the epitome of ordinary.  At least, that's what you would think, if you stopped reading here.  

Let's try that same story, this time with just a few of the details that make it so much more than I, boring and ordinary as I am, could have ever imagined.

My name is Sarah Muir.  I was born the first child of my parents, and the first grandchild of my mom's family, and was surrounded by an envelope of love ever since I was born. My siblings and I grew up knowing that we were the most precious things that had ever happened to our family. Without a doubt, we could have the support of at least thirty people, at the drop of a hat, for whatever we needed.  If we hadn't called to check in with our grandparents by noon each day, we would get a call from them, ordering us to come visit. We were cherished by so many.

My dad began working at a local machine shop when I was a baby, and he still works there today.  He walks back and forth to the shop, and he comes home everyday for lunch.  These days, there is no one home for him to have lunch with, but he does it anyway.  My parents took us to church every Sunday. We didn't pray together at home, and we didn't have family dinners around the table.  There is something to be said about good intentions.  My parents exuded love for us, love for family, and love for God.   They weren't systematically perfect about doing all of the "right" things, but they raised us to know what we needed to do, what was important to cling to, and how we needed to love.

When I told my family that I was going away to college, they cried.  My grandfather braced himself against the doorway and wiped his tears.   Even so, they eagerly made the four hour trip to take me to school.  I think there were ten members of my family in my dorm room, helping me decorate, making sure my roommates had everything they needed, and comforting us as we started a new journey. They would make the four hour trip, whenever needed, to bring me food, to bring me comfort, and to bring me home.

I fell in love with Brent somewhere in the midst of this.  We staggered through the throes of a relationship, complicated by young long distance and young love.  There are so many stories to tell here.  He pursued me, and he loved me, even when I was unloveable.  Love is patient.  Love is kind. We were married by candlelight on a sweltering August evening.  We led the wedding party and guests in a walking procession from the church to the backyard of my parents' home.   The yard was lit with twinkling lights, adorned by flowers, and highlighted with a dance floor which was constructed the night before. The beauty of that night guides me through darkness, even today.

We gave birth to our son Gavin while we still lived far from home.  Even so, my whole family was there, in the waiting room, anticipating his arrival.  In those same moments, my Aunt Cindy was being diagnosed with an incurable cancer, and Brent's grandmother was dancing her way toward eternity. Even through the distance, that tiny baby knew the love of family, as if they were all holding him every moment, of every day.  When we found ourselves expecting a second child, we knew that we needed to be home.  After looking at exactly one house, and making exactly one offer, our family of three moved in across the street from my parents.  Aiden was born shortly after, a smiling joy, surrounded by love.   Two years later, we grieved the loss of a third baby, and in the same year welcomed our daughter Olivia into the world.  She often speaks of this lost baby, wondering if it would have been a sister or a brother.  Olivia is all of her mother, all of her father, and has worn her heart on her sleeve since the day she was born.  These three precious children made us parents.  They are flesh of my broken flesh.  The bond that holds us together is indescribable. These three children showed us that love only grows and never runs out.

I lost my mom to cancer when she was only 54 years old.  My heart and my body ache;  the loss of a mother is visceral.  Her life, and her death, command me to do more.


Our family's heart for family is innate, primal, and instinctive.  Our eyes were opened to children, mothers, and fathers, whose families were falling apart.  Driven to share the love growing in us, we entered the foster care system, having no intentions or expectations for where the journey would lead us.  Our only goal was to love the children that entered our home, and to love their families, as long as they were in our lives.  We were foster parents to twenty children over five years.

Through this chapter in our lives, we became parents to three more beautiful children. Ana, Sofia, and Theo joined our family through adoption.  They are heart of my broken heart.  Through their birth into our family, we were able to see that family transcends bloodlines and and physical birth. They showed us that family is a communion between people, giving and receiving, sharing life and love. They also showed us that adoption is a communion between families, giving and receiving, life and love.  Through adoption, these children have been carried from family to family, mother to mother, father to father, from them to us, from her to me.

Despite the honor and joy that it is to love them, the loss and grief that brought them into our family is not lost on me.  For Ana, Sofia, and Theo, I gained the title of mother, sharing it with another soul, as they had their hearts and lives broken between us.  The gravity of this cannot be measured.

Our family swells with love, with brokenness, with pain, and with healing. We live a full and busy life.  I don't know what I want to be when I grow up.  I recently resigned from my fifteen year professional career as an occupational therapist.  I forfeited salary, benefits, and security to figure out what is next.  I am a precious child, beloved wife, dear mother, mediocre friend, broken spirit, forgiven soul, novice childcare director, struggling grad student.




I am the epitome of ordinary, living an extraordinary life. 

#communion #coffee #wine #family #adoption

What Time Do You Start Being Nice?

What Time Do You Start Being Nice? 

I don't parent well before coffee.  I would be a wonderful mom if the hours of operation were from 10am -5pm, and if coffee was given to me intravenously before I ever opened my eyes.  The next best thing is, like I have described before, when Brent delivers coffee to me in bed.  I always tell my kids that I need to drink at least one full cup of hot coffee or I start the day mean and grouchy.  One  little guy tiptoed into the kitchen one morning and quietly asked "is your coffee done? what time do you start being nice?".  

One day, several pairs of little footsteps hit the floor running and screaming far too early. Mayhem and destruction were imminent.  There had been no intravenous coffee, there had been no coffee delivered to me in bed.  My eyes were heavy and my ears were bleeding from the noise.  My spirit was weary.  I thought about throwing all of the kids out on the proverbial curb and going back to bed. 

Instead, I hid in the kitchen, plugged my ears, drank my coffee, and read these words from Ephesians: "You..exhaled disobedience. We all did it, all of us doing what we felt like doing, when we felt like doing it, all of us in the same boat. It's a wonder God didn't lose his temper and do away with the whole lot of us. Instead, in mercy and with an incredible love, he embraced us." 

I decided that the whole lot of them could stay, and I embraced them.  And then I hid some more. And I drank some more coffee. 

I find myself going back to this morning often.  Mostly because most mornings are exactly like this.  But also because I am constantly reminded how unlovable and undeserving I am.  And yet I am loved.  I am constantly reminded that sometimes, the most unloveable people with the most unlikeable behavior, need loved the most.  

Loving like that isn't easy.  Loving like that doesn't happen between 10 am and 5 pm.  It doesn't happen with intravenous coffee support.  Loving without condition has to happen without our conditions.