The other day I was standing in the kitchen making lunch.
At least…I think I was.
Someone was asking for a popsicle (even though lunch was five minutes away). Someone couldn’t find their stuffed octopus. There was a full debate happening over who got to pick the movie later. The dog was barking at absolutely nothing, because apparently birds in our yard are a personal offense. And somewhere in the middle of it all, someone yelled, “Mom! You have to come see this!”
I honestly can’t remember if I ever finished making lunch.
This is what life sounds like here.
People often ask what it’s like to have eight kids.
Usually they’re thinking logistics—groceries, laundry, schedules, chaos math.
And yes…there’s plenty of that.
But that’s not what it feels like.
It feels full.
There is almost always someone laughing.
Someone telling a story that takes ten minutes longer than necessary.
Someone building something wildly unnecessary in the living room and calling it “a project.”
Someone reading quietly in a corner like the chaos doesn’t apply to them.
Someone trying to convince me they absolutely need another snack, even though they just ate one.
And yes—someone is usually crying too.
All at the same time.
There are days when it gets to me.
Days when everyone needs something at once and I find myself stepping into the bathroom just to have thirty seconds of silence and recalibrate my entire nervous system. (Please tell me I’m not alone in this.)
Sometimes I think, It would be nice if it were just quiet.
But then something shifts. Because one day…it will be.
The piano won’t be playing. No one will be asking me to look at “just one more thing.” There won’t be footsteps pounding down the hallway or backpacks dumped by the door or a trail of shoes that somehow never make it to the right place.
And while I know that season will have its own beauty…
I have a feeling I’ll miss this one more than I can imagine.
Something I’ve started noticing lately is that God is quietly changing what I pay attention to.
Instead of only noticing the interruptions…
I’m starting to notice the invitations.
An invitation to listen to a story I’ve already heard three times.
An invitation to sit on the floor instead of folding laundry for five more minutes.
An invitation to laugh at something that doesn’t really make sense but somehow still feels important.
An invitation to stop rushing past the very life I prayed for.
Not every moment feels meaningful while it’s happening. Most of them feel ordinary. Even chaotic. Even loud.
But every now and then, I catch one.
Like the other day.
I had been gone for almost a week, and the morning after I got home, we all ended up gathered around the kitchen island. No plan. No agenda. No one orchestrating anything. We just…stayed.
The little kids came and went—running off to play, then circling back to climb onto someone’s lap before disappearing again. The older kids stayed put, pulling up bar stools and dining chairs.
We looked at old photos, laughed at terrible haircuts, told stories we’ve all heard a hundred times, and somehow they were funnier than ever. Someone laughed so hard they snorted. Someone insisted an embarrassing picture absolutely had to be deleted. (It wasn’t.)
And before I realized it, over an hour had passed.
No chaos. No rushing. No one asking what was next. Just us. Together.
And even in the middle of it, I remember thinking:
Don’t miss this.
Nothing about it was extraordinary on paper. But it felt like one of those moments that quietly settles into your memory before you even realize it matters. Because maybe that’s what I’m learning. The loud moments aren’t separate from the meaningful ones. They’re the soil the meaningful ones grow in.
And maybe these ordinary, messy, beautifully full days are more sacred than I’ve given them credit for. Not because they’re easy. Not because they’re perfect. But because God is here too. Right in the middle of it all.
And maybe that’s the real glimmer of grace. Not that my house is quiet. But that it was never meant to be.