For the sake of my sanity, I'm choosing the latter.
A cold and rainy day. One in which I carefully picked my way down our long, muddy driveway to the mailbox, but not carefully enough apparently. And of course, as luck would have it, on this quiet country road, the wipe-out happened as a single, solitary car passed by, perfectly lined up with the stage upon which my catastrophe was playing out.
One knee hit the ground as the other leg lid out in a straight, perpendicular angle. To give myself props, I kept the umbrella upright and thus protected both my good-hair day and the outgoing Christmas cards.
"That. did not feel good." was my first thought.
"That. is going to feel even worse tomorrow" was the second thought.
36 year old bodies aren't like 6 year old bodies. Heck, they aren't even like 26 year old bodies!
But life goes on and so it did.
Until evening.
The soup was almost done, the just-baked bread was cooling, and I was sitting down for a much needed snuggle-n-nurse session with Bubbles who was ready to fall asleep for the night, when Miraclegirl cames flying out of the bathroom. She proceeded to run in circles, arms flailing, then out of her mouth came one, long, sustained howl, "ohno-ohno-ohno-ohno!" In hysterics, she continued to do this, until she flopped on the floor covering her head going, "ohno-ohno-ohno-itssuchamesswhatarewegoingtodo?"
I stared at her in awe and wonder, wondering what the heck she was doing, when she uncovered her head, looked up and SCREAMed, "It's a flood!!!!!!!! It's.a.flood.mama! ohno-ohno-ohno!"
I uncermoniously dump my drowsy Bubbles and run in, trying to cover up Bubbles feeding source while milk sprays everywhere and he picks up his sister's howling refrain.
My washing machine is rigged up due to lack of plumbing.
(and it's a long story, hard to explain, so I'll spare the details. But it involves hoses being placed strategically while a load is going.)
I was proud of the rig job. Still am. It's rigged, but it's better than a laundromat that costs me money and requires hauling kids and laundry to washers that have had who-knows-what-washed-and-stuck-in-crevices-in-them.
Well my rig job rebelled. While on the "drain" part of the rinse cycle.
I have no phone reception for a phone call
(another long story about our Sprint Air-rave kicking the bucket on us, which is how we get cell reception)
so I texted an SOS to Handsome. It took three attempts but finally sent. He responded and told me how to get the shop vac from dry-to-wet mode.
I followed his instructions.
Turn it on.
There was something he forgot to add to the "how to" process.
Residual ashes from pellet stove clean-outs blew all over my now flooded bathroom and left a volcanic-like ash in the air and in my hair.
Miraclegirl began running in circles again yelling "ohno-ohno-ohno-ohno-ohno.
Meanwhile Mason was screaming and trying to crawl to me in the water, caring less his mama was in meltdown mode but intent upon getting his human pacifier back.
All's well that ends well. Handsome arrived home within ten minutes and rescued me, Miraclegirl got over her hysterics, and Bubbles settled in again for his nighttime routine. And I sat back and shook my head and laughed. Because what else are you going to do?
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On a serious note, it is exceptionally difficult to be facing some code hurdles, because it delays finishing renovations which delays us being able to take children who need Shiloh.
In three months, three people have directed my attention to three precious, fragile lives who need a forever home. One terminal, unless an organ transplant comes her way. One who's adoption fees would be waived because the agency just wants her to have a home while undergoing multiple surgeries.
Hearts and bodies Shiloh is being created for. But I have to respond, "We can't take them. We aren't ready."
And my heart shatters with longing and stirs with hurting impatience.
I am tempted to remind God that He needs to move some hearts because we need to be ready now.
"Um, hello God!? Did you see that email!? I kinda need You to move some mountains so I can take that child. Like move today already! What is up with the delays and detours? There are waiting kids who need us!"
Then I remember:
The One who allowed Lazarus to die, so that He could better show His glory. . .
The One Who knows and loves these children. . .
The One Who is writing Shiloh's story. . .
The One Who delights in perfect timing. . .
So I again throw myself on the altar of waiting and longing and ask Him to tie me down for I can barely keep myself on. I hold up my restless heart, that is waiting for each precious life who will complete the perfect jigsaw puzzle of love within, as my hourly sacrifice.
And I live today as faithfully as I can, rejoicing in the beauty, and choosing to throw my head back and belt out laughter at floods and smoke.
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Until next time:
Have a very Merry
and Blessed
Christmas!
