There are seasons in life that strip us of everything we've ever used to cope, exposing all of our un-dealt-with junk, and we find ourselves crying for no apparent reason (female) or flying off the handle at everyone in our path (male).
This isn't one of those seasons for me. I've been there, done that. When I flew across the world by myself at 19 to hike the Australian outback, for example. The wallabees must have thought me nuts, as I sat in the crags of the rocks with my journal and wept like a child.
The first six months of my life here in East Asia were another example. Take away my superstores and my drivers license and my ability to communicate, and give me the runs and a jetlagging baby and mountain altitudes at which none of my previous baking recipes could be followed, and I could again be found curled up in fetal position with a journal, blubbering all over myself.
There are more examples, but I won't go on and on. Enough such seasons have passed in my almost-31 years of life that I am pretty sure there is nothing left in my deepest parts but a very strong desire to see JE$US face-to-face.
No, this is something different. The tears are here. The fetal position is here. The journal is here (only now they call it a "blog"). This time, however, the "no apparent reason" does not apply. I struggle now because my life is unquestionably, verifiably non-doable.
Will it change? Will this pass? Oh yes, of course so. I know this. And yet, when I look at the clock and it is 9:47 a.m. and I am already done. Had it. Nothing left for the day. Yikes. That ain't good.
So I just let myself cry. I let the Heddens take my boys for the afternoon. I eat Nutter Butters from Betsy and Alex (something I can afford to do leisurely at this point because I am burning more calories mothering right now than I did during college soccer season). I pray like my life depends on it. Oh wait, it does. I remember that G0D has never, ever, ever let me down. I thank him for my precious, unbelievable children and husband; particularly, at this point, my daughter, who is more-or-less knocking me over with her beautiful heart as I fall daily more in love with her. I write all of this out in a blog post called "woe is me" and anyone who reads it thinks, "geesh, I'm glad I'm not her."
And I take Mandy's advice;)
And time will pass. Two-year-olds will become three-year-olds and "newly adopted" will become my long-standing daughter and there will be laughter again in my heart. And if none of that should ever come to pass (which of course it will), I am redeemed by the blood of the lamb and sealed for an eternity of serenity and joy.
Ok, time for a shower.