Without a doubt, God has been teaching me a lot about patience, His timing, and giving up control. They have been lessons that definitely needed learning, but after Griffin was born I thought for sure my education on how much better He is in the driver's seat than me would be complete. Surely, now all of the other pieces of my life would fall neatly into place just like I had planned. Isn't that what I deserve? My C-section recovery should go painlessly. A huge house with an even bigger yard and a next-to-nothing price should be rented to us the day we close on our house. Griffin (and Owen) should sleep through the night, or at least for good 4-hour stretches. I shouldn't need to study for the Step 3 board exam. Laundry, start folding yourself. Owen, learn to vacuum. Jason, become a massage therapist. Postpartum flab, take this quart of cookie dough ice-cream and morph into the bikini body I never had.
Unfortunately (rather, I should say "Fortunately" if I am truly learning my lesson), things are not going as I had planned. He must not be through with me yet. In my stomach is that feeling as if I'd been put on the spot in class and after one question breathing a sigh of relief that the pressure is off only to learn the spot light is actually still squarely on me. The firing squad of pimp questions continues until the attending mercifully moves on to his next victim. My face has become the color of a tomato, the pouring sweat has ruined any chance of maintaining what I thought was a good hair day, and my desire for lunch has vanished. Thankfully, God's intention isn't to embarrass, humiliate, or belittle me (and usually that isn't the intent of my attendings either, usually).
So, here I am. Face starting to flush and sweat starting to bead. My "perfect" plans are veering out of control. Although I'm feeling more and more normal following Griffin's delivery, it has been far from painless. A call out to Dr. Hedrick is likely in order when the sun comes up because peeing razor blades, as she puts it, has returned, and I don't think cranberry juice is going to cut it. Also, I'm sure it's shocking, but I haven't slept for more than 2 hours, maybe 3 on one occasion, at a time. That has definitely put a damper on my Step 3 study schedule.
Currently however, the biggest plan of mine that is heading over the cliff like Thelma and Louise happens to also be the most significant remaining piece of the puzzle for our move to G.I. - finding a place to live. After obsessively checking Craigslist and The Independent only one place has come close to being our next home. This cute little brick ranch seemed so right, that I was sure it was God's gift to me for being such a good student. If you noticed the past tense in that last sentence you've figured out that it all fell through. "i am sorry to inform you that i will be renting to another family" stings a lot. How could he reject my family?! For goodness sake, capitalize your "i's" and use some punctuation. If you don't have the courtesy to call at least have the decency to use some grammar. I feel like parading down to his house with my precious boys to show him what he's missing. And, for the record, his lawn will never look as good as Jason's. Take that! Regardless, we are days to weeks away from packing up and driving away. Homeless. He has a plan, He has a plan, He has a plan. I'm frustrated, but he has a plan.
So many times I get tired of my rear-view mirror view and am convinced that if I crawl over the console and take His seat I'll see things so much more clearly. Obviously, that is flawed; oh so tempting, but flawed. Right now I'm sitting back and resisting the urge to ask "Are we there yet?" while I let God take the wheel.
No comments:
Post a Comment