Eight Maids A Milking

Eight Maids A Milking

God Sustains You Through the Ordinary

      I have spent my entire lifetime living in smaller, agricultural communities.  At one point in my life I had corn fields on all four sides of my home.  It was a regular event to have the dairy cows break the fence and have them grazing in our well manicured backyard.  It was always fun chasing cows back by using golf clubs and baseball bats.  Milking is a common theme in farming towns, but most milking today is done by machine.  Farming has become an industry and farmers now have hundreds if not thousands of cows. We now arrive at the eight maids a milking. At first glance, eight maids a-milking feels unimpressive.  No music.  No celebration.  No drama or pageantry.  Just work.  Routine.  Daily responsibility.  And that is exactly why this day matters so much for those who are grieving.  Because grief doesn’t usually heal in grand, spiritual moments.  Healing doesn't come in big miracles, but in the smallest, most mundane, almost unoticeable of ways.  It heals in the ordinary.

      Christmas grief is rarely loud all the time.  It’s quiet—and persistent.  It's about as welcome as the fruit cake that your aunt makes each year.  It shows up in unplanned ambushes, things like making breakfast for fewer people or making meals that were once someone's favorite, or walking through routines you didn’t choose like decorating for Christmas, or folding laundry with memories attached hoping to get a scent from their clothing one more time, or driving familiar roads alone or finishing tasks when your heart is tired.  The maids remind us that God meets us not just in church services or special moments, but in kitchens, workplaces, cars, and living rooms.  God is just as present in the mundane as He is in the miraculous.  Read that again and let it sink in.  For the person grieving we are begging God for daily comfort, but sometimes we are so focused on the big thing and we miss the smaller things.  That would be like looking at the night sky and only seeing the moon.  You would miss out on the millions of tiny glimmers that light the night sky.

      Milking happens daily, actually multiple times a day.  Not once.  Not occasionally.  But instead again and again.  Grief works the same way.  You don’t heal once and move on.  It's not like a wound that you put a banaid on and in a few days it goes away.  Grief doesn't live by those rules.  You wake up and carry grief again.  Some days feel lighter.  Some days feel heavy again without warning. And that can feel discouraging and to be quiet honest, exhausting.  Since I am a widower I can speak for how men grieve.  Men are normally emotionally predictable.  You can set a clock by a man, but when grief strikes him his emotions are thrown out of whack.  Those constantly changes emotions are confusing and tiring.  We go from easier to harder.  But repetition is not failure.  Repetition is how strength is built.  God does not grow weary of sustaining you each day.  I'm reminded of what the weeping prophet Jeremiah wrote, "His mercies begin afresh each morning (Lamentations 3:23)."  Each morning comes with fresh mercy—not leftovers from yesterday.

      I am lactose intolerant, so milk is a touchy food for me.  But for most people milk is incredibly nourishing.  It's rich in important vitamins.  It strengthens.  It sustains life.  In grief, nourishment often comes through small things.  For me personally some of those small things have been eating when I didn't feel like it, or sleeping when I can, or taking a walk, or reading just one verse, answering one message, taking deep breaths, or just surrendering and letting someone help.  Those might not seem like big tasks, for that matter they might seem like seemingly insignificant tasks, but they are monumental for the person grieving.  These are not signs of weakness.  They are acts of faith.  You are honoring God when you care for yourself in simple ways.  Don't allow grief to cause you to stop having self care and spiritual care.

      The maids are working—quietly, faithfully, without applause.  The work is probably quite tiring.  Grief exhaustion is real and messes with you trying to convince you that you are lazy or unmotivated.  You need to give yourself grace.  You are bearing a load and the weight of it is immense.  You can't do what you used to do, and that's ok.  Jesus Himself understood exhaustion.  Christ was both 100% God and 100% man.  Jesus said “Come to Me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest (Matthew 11:28)."  God does not measure your faith by productivity.  He measures it by dependence, by trusting.  Rest is not quitting.  Rest is trusting God to hold what you cannot.

      Choose one ordinary act today and offer it to God.  View your small act as an act of worship to the Lord who is full of grace and mercy.  When you cook a meal, even if it's just for you, tell Him that you are cooking this meal for Him.  Or when you walk invite Him into the walk with you.  Or when you rest invite Him into the rest because He's the one that calls you to rest.  Let the ordinary become sacred, and you will find your heart healing in ways you never noticed.

Reflection Questions:

 - What is one things you miss about your former,  'ordinary' way of life?

- In what, small, ordinary ways do you see God healing your heart?

- What is one ordinary thing that you can turn into worship today?

Prayer

Father,

Grief has made the ordinary feel heavy and exhausting.

Thank You for meeting me in the routines, the chores, the quiet moments.

Give me strength for today—not tomorrow, not next week, just today.

Help me receive Your mercy one morning at a time.

Teach me that faithfulness in the small things matters to You.

Amen.