It’s not how I would write the story. The way we’re living.
Baths in large tote bins. A sump pump to drain them.
Every. Time.
Gives new meaning to giving the kids baths. . . trying to drain a bin into the toilet with a sump pump while the baby grabs for the stream of water and cord simultaneously.
Every. Time.
Gives new meaning to giving the kids baths. . . trying to drain a bin into the toilet with a sump pump while the baby grabs for the stream of water and cord simultaneously.
No stove, though the electric burner and toaster oven my
in-laws is working pretty darn well. Amazing what seems like a luxury when
you’ve gone without for a few weeks.
Halted renovations because of blue-print/code issues. Which
results in living in this one large room with beds and dressers and toys.
One large room in which I am also drying clothes on drying
racks because of lack of dryer.
(In other words, it’s crowded around here.)
A teething baby boy who won’t sleep more than 2 hours at a
time, causing me to border on a nervous breakdown.
A 4 year old that is testing, testing, testing.
Internet issues that have been preventing me from returning to
freelance work. . . which is resulting in financial stresses and panic.
Oh, and did I forget to mention one of the bath bins cracked
while it was filled so water went everywhere?
And when I was draining the smaller one with the sump pump I
grabbed Bubbles to keep him from going in the bin headfirst and the water
sprayed all over the bathroom?
Oh, and things like rigged washing machines flooding bathrooms and falling in the mud and knocked over plant stands that sent dirt flying as I maneuvered between stand and drying racks and losing cell coverage for weeks on end so I can't call out and I can't get calls and, and, and. . .
Oh, and things like rigged washing machines flooding bathrooms and falling in the mud and knocked over plant stands that sent dirt flying as I maneuvered between stand and drying racks and losing cell coverage for weeks on end so I can't call out and I can't get calls and, and, and. . .
Yeah, not how I would write the story.
“Why am I doing this!?” was my thought as I collapsed into
the rocking chair last night. “We’re living in this chaos because. . . . !?”
He gently reminded me. It whispered across my soul once
again.
“Shiloh. Refuge. Broken, fragile children.”
I thought about the journey to this point.
The discovery.
The dreaming.
The waiting.
The detour.
The daily preparation.
The purpose of it all.
The discovery.
The dreaming.
The waiting.
The detour.
The daily preparation.
The purpose of it all.
For our heart children. Who may be living in gut-wrenching,
make you want to vomit conditions, even as I write this. Who would consider
these current conditions a luxury because love lives in the middle of it.
Children I’m being prepared for as I learn to live in chaos
and inconvenience. As I die to myself a little bit more with each hour of
unclaimed sleep, one more sump-pump drained bath bin, the umpteenthth
sheet of cookies because that’s how many it takes to make a batch in a toaster
oven, and the weepy, screaming, demanding kids who are over-tired and out of
sorts.
As I learn the art of praise for what I do have and dig
deeper into what it means to be in constant prayer, casting everything on Him.
Internet they can’t hook up. A job I need to do to make money. A washer that’s
conked. A baby that won’t sleep. A husband that’s exhausted. A preschooler that
is experiencing adolescent -ike emotions.
Everything.
In His hands. Where it belongs.
Everything.
In His hands. Where it belongs.
As I learn to fight with prayer and praise when exhausted
and grumpy. As I learn to say out loud, with determination, “I choose joy!”
Because that’s what it is. A choice.
And I choose it. Even when things are all wrong.
And exhausting.
And chaotic.
Joy is a choice.
And I choose it. Even when things are all wrong.
And exhausting.
And chaotic.
As I learn to love when stress is piled on me. What I want
to do is be grumpy and push my family out of my way and sit in my “What will we
do, oh what will we do!?” panic corner. Instead, learning to not only be there
for my husband and children during this time, but be there for them extra,
because the stress is wearing them down and they need the extra love right now.
As I learn it’s His strength, not mine. It’s His ministry,
not mine. It’s His problems, not mine alone to figure out. His children, not
mine to freak out over--or freak out with.
It’s not the way I would have written the story. But then,
the way I would have written it, wouldn’t have prepared me the way this
storyline is preparing me.
That’s why I’m not The Author.
He is.
That’s why I’m not The Author.
He is.
