I just sent a camo wearing husband out the door for the second day in a row- he's on his way to the ATV trails with two of his friends.
"Deuces," he declared yesterday, before he kissed me.
I'm guessing it means awesome? He'd clearly already switched over into guy speak. I could hear them out in the front yard, whooping and hollering and revving machines.
This is because, even when tankers go to play, they still want to ride machines and make a lot of noise and possibly tear up some of the scenery.
Today, they have one of their wives with them, so they may or may not go a little easier. I would have gone, but I have a headache.
Besides, it's my only chance to have the house to myself for a little while.
Oh my goodness, it's the mornings that are the most challenging. Usually, my mornings are still and quiet. I don't even listen to music. I hardly turn on any lights but the Christmas lights; I move around in the soft glow and shadows of my clean kitchen.
I like to watch the glow of dawn in the sky- I like to watch it grow brighter and brighter, and to watch for the band of early morning sunlight as it first strikes the wall.
What Keith loves to do is to turn on the TV and watch sitcoms from the eighties. They evoke in him the same feeling that a beloved book evokes in me- a sense of coming home, of seeing old friends.
So, before sunrise, the house is filled now with canned laughter, ridiculously stupid jokes and the sound of bratty children being cute. All the electric lights are on, glaring off of surfaces.
Then, suddenly, it's 10 am and the kitchen smells like toast and eggs and bacon and the sink is full of dishes. I haven't written a thing, I can't pull together one coherent thought, I'm still in my pajamas and my coffee is getting cold.
And I don't even have kids!
I keep leaning back into Christ, feeling exhausted and stretched thin, and ridiculous. Everything washes away and I am still and loved and centered.
Then I return to my task, thankful beyond words that He is with me, walking with me day by day and not judging me for my silliness or my terrible attitude or my weakness.
This morning, in a desperate attempt to create peace, I cleaned- as if clean surfaces could equal simple quietness, or dishes put away could be as refreshing as solitude.
I read this in Christy: "One of Miss Alice's Quaker sayings was apropos: 'Such and such a person is meant to be my bundle.'"
I put the book down and thought about how few "bundles" I had in my life. Shouldn't there be more people that I was meant to love and carry?
Clearly, I'm still stuck on this idea that Christ doesn't take into account our nature, the very nature that He Himself created, when He leads us in our lives. I persist in having this idea of a universal Christian life that we must all mold ourselves to, instead of all being diverse parts of Christ's body, each with a different strength and calling, and each loving in our own way, in the way that we were created to love.
"How come I don't have many bundles?" I asked Him, feeling guilty.
Your writing is your bundle, He said.
Like, surprise, Jenny! Christ did not make you a solitary, creative writer and then expect you to develop and carry scores of personal relationships as part of your calling. Calling me to do the very thing that He equipped me for- now that would just make too much sense, clearly.
Now I'd better wrap this up and go for a nice long walk, before my number one and best bundle returns, mud splattered, blue eyed and ready for kisses, a cocktail and a thundrously loud movie, enhanced by his top of the line surround sound system.
