The Accountant’s LamentRead Time 9 min

It is the lament of accountants. We spend our days in the background, in the weeds. Behind the scenes of the business, we do the unnoticeable. Everyone gets paid, their 401(k) is funded, their insurance is secure. The lights go on each morning, and in the cold winter months, the heat works and the parking lot is plowed. The bills are paid, the receivables collected and the financials analyzed. It’s not a glorious job. It’s a job of details.

But what if, as I go about these mundane duties — whether it is reconciling an account or tidying the kitchen, or unloading the dishwasher, or cutting the grass — I imagine Jesus right beside me. What if instead of wondering if anyone notices, I remember that Jesus notices. He is standing at the sink or sitting at the desk with me and seeing me do the things that need to be done on this day in this place at this time.

What does that change? How does that matter and make it better? He put me in this place, not that place. He put me here in Milwaukee with this vocation, this family, this job, these friends. He didn’t place me or call me anywhere else. I don’t know why; I just know it is.

What do I do with that? How do I sanctify that ordinariness? Is what I am doing enough? Is it even worthy of sanctification?  Am I disappointing God because I’m not doing more?

Where is the holiness in the little things I do with great love? How can I remember to do those little things with great love? Do they matter or do only the big things matter?

Perhaps I can embrace the “solitude” of these things. Madeleine Delbrel, the French writer from the middle of the last century, describes these moments as exultant and holy. She insists they are “inhabited by God.” These moments of ordinary are where we continue to encounter our Lord, and that can be sanctifying and enough. It is precisely because I am in this particular place doing this particular thing and I am inviting Jesus into it that the little things begin to matter.

I can remember as I lug that load of laundry up the stairs that I am providing my family with clean clothes. When I am doing my job well and with integrity, I am helping my company with its mission. When I cut the grass, I am caring for the beauty of nature. When I sweep the floor, I am caring for the home I get to live in.

But we fail to notice these moments are everywhere. All day, we have the opportunity to be in solitude with God, but “because the interlude of solitude is separated from us by only the thickness of a door or by the span of a quarter hour, we deny its value of eternity, we do not take it seriously, we do not approach it as a unique landscape, capable of essential revelations.”

In other words, she says, we have the “superstition of time.” We think it only “counts” if we sit down and call it prayer or if it’s in the confines of Mass or Eucharistic Adoration. But if we reframe the construct of time, we can use those moments of ordinariness (and sometimes drudgery) to recognize the constant presence of Christ in our life. He is there in the unnoticed. We can appreciate the value of it and the grace and revelation that can come from noticing him who notices us.

I can be confident that what Jesus is asking me is what is enough. I don’t see the ripple effect, and I have to be OK with that. I don’t understand the big picture, and it’s hubris for me to think I should. If I embrace the littleness and remember who is with me in it, I can pursue holiness in the way God intends for me.

Like the man with the talents in the Gospel of Matthew (Matt 25:14-30), I need to engage with what was given to me instead of looking for what I don’t have or wasting it by burying it in the sand. I have to see the blessing of what is mine to do and do it well, remembering that as I work, I am not alone because my Father in heaven sees. He sees when I hang my head in sorrow for my sins. He sees when I resist the temptation to do the thing I wrestle with. He sees the prayers whispered in secret, the pan I cleaned even though I didn’t use it, and the patience I try so hard to have. He sees when I get it right and when I don’t, and he stays. He doesn’t walk away because I messed up. He helps me start fresh. When my ego longs to be noticed for the hard work I’ve done, he reminds me that he notices it and that’s all I need.