I figured maybe it was time for practical updates.
Also, I've gotten somewhat distracted from The Awakened Heart, as Keith gave me a copy of Anna Karenina for my birthday, and I have been absorbed into the story, so all my quote material would be coming from Tolstoy- gosh, that sounds impressive!
Maybe I should quote from Tolstoy, just to elevate the tone of my blog. I could pretend to be something more than merely an avid reader and writer of love stories.
Sadly, I do happen to be just that sort of sucker.
The house still has not rented; December is the fifth month that we have carried the mortgage. It's numbing.
We have lowered the rent as far down as we dare to go; we have had a move-in special for the last two months.
People are often making appointments to see it, but only one family filled out an application. They weren't very good candidates, but beggars can't be choosers, so we decided to take a gamble on them.
That fell through anyway, the day before Thanksgiving.
For about six hours, I could see suddenly that everything would be alright. We would actually adopt. The whole thing would happen.
Then suddenly the door closed and it was all impossible and mind-numbing and so one might as well go back to real life again.
Keith is going to be Santa today for his company's Christmas party. Last night we had to look for his old black army boots, the pair he wore in Germany, so long ago.
The closet is off the nursery, such as it is. I knew this would happen when I began decorating it; I knew it would at some point be a symbol of pain, and so it is. I don't like going in it.
That room has a surreal look to it, especially in the glare of the overhead light. It has the feel of a room that a parent has kept perfectly, although the child has gone somewhere beyond their reach.
There's simply nothing to be done but wait.
I watched the video of The Snowman. In it, there is a scene of a little girl looking out the window at the starry sky while she holds a card with Santa on it. She is awestruck to see the Snowman and the boy go flying past on their way to the North Pole.
I realized, as I watched it this time, that she was able to be so transported by awe in part because she was kept safe and sound by her family. Her parents slept somewhere cozily in the house, having made a space for the child to grow, to be filled with wonder, to have her own dreams.
Somehow, this struck me to the quick. I had always thought I would be one such parent. I had always thought that my home and my love would shelter a number of small children as they grew.
But this is not so. When I think of this, I feel as though I am withered and dried up. I feel irrelevant to the big picture, to the real things of life.
This is a terrible way to feel and so I have learned to push it away and to feel nothing. This is a terrible thing to do and goes contrary to every bit of personal wisdom and experience that I have gained in life, but there it is. That's what I do.
It's certainly what I do when I flick on the light of the so called nursery and see that dust is gathering on the small clothing and toys, and everything seems to be some kind of unthinkably cruel joke as my husband empties bag after bag of old army equipment onto the floor in search of a boot so he can dress up as Santa.
But I remember how quickly everything was switched back when we thought we would have renters. I know this feeling of pathetic hope and weary impossibility is just an illusion. I just have to wait in it.
I could become angry at God for this; I know He would not mind if I did. However, I just don't see the point of it, since I know that what I suffer, He suffers.
So what should I say to Him? Shall I say, why do You make Yourself suffer so?
The night I knew for sure that we could not pursue international adoption, He said to me, I have a plan for your life.
I'm not entirely sure why He felt the need to tell me so, as it is perfectly clear that He has a plan for every one's life.
And what can a person say to Him in response? No? I refuse?
In which case, I tend to believe that God becomes the following storm. He becomes the sailors that toss you off the ship, and He is the ocean that receives you and the whale that swallows you.
Eventually, He spits you up upon the shore, where He meets you, and teaches you about His offensive mercy.
So there is simply no escape. Sun or shade, one must sit and wait with Him. That is what I have learned, anyway.
In other news, I continue writing. Not the allegory, no. I read the allegory last night, all fourteen pages of it, and my impressions and feelings were so conflicted that I could not come to a conclusion on the state of it.
Because writing that is tedious and asks too much of me, I spend all my hours writing what is turning out to be another fantasy novel.
Now that story I do love writing and I work on it all day long and must force myself to consider what to make for dinner, and then to actually make the dinner, and then to leave off writing it so that my husband is not forced to spend his entire evening alone while I sit before the pale glow of the computer screen, lost in a world I can control almost completely.
Ah, therapy!
Now I must go and decide what to wear for my visit with Santa. I'm pretty sure he will tell me that I have been a good girl, despite his underwear drawer being empty this morning.
