To Fetch a Pail of Water

Jack carried me across the threshold of a sliding glass door that refused to lock, so a broom handle would suffice for a security system. Our “new” home vs squatter termites. Home cookin’ vs lingering Far Eastern kitchen cuisine odors. Closet space vs holes in sheetrock. Windows to view His world vs grime, bugs, and ivy. Hardwood floors vs nasty green shag carpeting. Laundry room vs leaky roof. A real bargain vs cost of overwhelming DIY projects. Dad’s new job vs Mom’s three children, one entering grade 9, another grade 1, and a three year old.

Bless this house, O Lord, I pray. Bless me, Jehovah, as I seek to build my nest in this Land of Opportunity. Closets could not be filled until cleaned and painted. Isn’t that life? The parts of us that aren’t visible to others have clutter and filth that desperately need Clorox and knee-bent weeding; how tempting it was to shove our “stuff”, our seeds which would be unseen, in on top of dirt, just so that the blossoms, which are visible, could burst forth. Forcing maturity is not God’s way. The ivy clinging to the bedroom window prevented morning Sonlight from sating us, but, when pulled away, it left sticky little tentacles of goo. There was no easy fix for the ivy removal or the closet renovation. Paint won’t stick to grime. Rough shelving would do no more for any of us than splinter our fingers and cause pus to fester.

Sometimes surgery is all that will heal the wound. Heal the wound of exhaustion but leave the scar of renewal, for clean closets will remind us of Your faithfulness. Open my eyes to see glimpses of truth You have for me in the pretenses of my DIY attitudes. You, Jehovah, prepare me by setting up struggles in which my closet life vies with my living room life. Pretending to be self-less but wholly self-living. You know what I need, Lord, but I’m too scared to ask. Just do it!

Working the fingers from dawn until midnight is not His desire, but living out of cardboard boxes was not my idea of living. If only I had repented and rested, keepin’ the main thing the main thing. If only I had found rest in quietness and trusting. If God works slowly but patiently, then why do I find it necessary to create order from chaos in a few quick days?

My dealing with a child pulling on my leg craving attention, as well as my desire for fellowship with a new friend, lathered our home atmosphere with whining. Exhausted by long hours at a new job, my husband limped in nightly needing nourishment for his tummy and his spirit. But I was more worried about what he would “think” was left undone. Tears became my food. I remember hanging over the stove, striving to make breakfast but unable to move. I had felt crummy for weeks but attributed it to exhaustion.

Sitting in the doctor’s office, I was handed a questionnaire and left alone, legs dangling off the examining table. The doctor was occupied elsewhere, so his not returning in my due time, I glanced at the paperwork on the desk and scored my own test. Severe depression. Down as low as the scale went. This kaleidoscope of darkness at least had a name, albeit being a black sheep in a new community was not what I coveted.

This DIY girl hung by a thread of falling into the abyss of total hopelessness. Like my near-by Qaneh, I was nothing but a shell. A gusty wind could have done me in. Gaping holes negate a wall’s insulation. Rusty implements clutter a yard. Tarps are band-aids against rotten shingles. Rats have a shopping spree through vacant rooms. The bucket at the well would never draw water again.

Grass can’t grow on ground stomped hard by a stampede of unmet expectations. Exactly what had I expected? That after a hard season of time in Texas I deserved for life to be “normal” again? That my self-imposed two year exile from hospitable hearts of women there would bring immediate bosom buddies? That my anorexic attitude would quickly delight in the richest of His foods? That I could build my nest of orderliness and beauty overnight? That my daughter would not be one bit disappointed that ninth grade was still “middle school” in Mississippi? That church staff would be one big happy cohesive family of unity and support…especially when the pastor was called to another place just three months after our arrival?

Unmet human expectations are monsters hiding in the closet. They eat away at one’s soul, never making an appearance except in the blackness of night. Unleashing their toxic threats, they are only harmful to the worn and weary.

No room in the inn anywhere to be found to the one pregnant and troubled and far from home. Did Mary’s tears fall, too? Did her veins pulse with thick syrup and her surroundings close in like a soupy morning fog? What on earth am I doing here?

I am right where God has sovereignly and supremely placed me. Isaiah 30:15 (HCSB) says, “You will be delivered (from daily pitfalls) by returning and resting; your strength will lie in quiet confidence (in Him).” (Parenthesis mine) You surely recognize the verse to which I cling! The testimony plea that I had prayed six years earlier was still being manufactured day by day, rule on rule. No place to go but HOME. HOME to the open arms. He was crouched down with wide-stretched arms to receive, even in….no, especially in…my weakness. To this child running was not an option; crawling was all I could muster.