I decided I want a credenza in my bedroom, because I have a big open space and nowhere to put down the electric tea kettle I just bought.
Our local small-town second-hand store had a lovely little piece, but I hemmed and hawed too long and someone else bought it.
No problem, said I. I'll just pop into the big thrift store in town and pick something out.
So on Saturday, I began the search. At each stopped I vaguely prayed, "God, please let me find it," while feeling vaguely foolish for praying for a first-world castoff credenza.
I started at the thrift store in the yuppy part of town. No luck.
I went to the huge thrift store in the lowly part of town, with the huge warehouse of a backroom that's silent and deserted and makes you wonder if you'll get assaulted and killed among the donated armoires.
I went to a building-supply thrift store, where if you're looking for something bizarre, you've come to the right place. Cut-up scraps of countertop in irregular shapes? Single cabinet drawer? Yes, please!
I went next door, to the regular-stuff thrift store. "God, please let me find it..."
I went to a place in the even lowlier part of town that came up on Google. As soon as I pulled in I had a new prayer. "God, please let me live. And maybe find a credenza." That place smelled overwhelmingly like cat pee. The man who greeted me (the one who was conscious.... the other one was taking a nap... I think) apologized for the darkness in the back of the store, but "we had a fire so I can't turn on the lights. Let me know if you need anything!"
I went clear across town to a discount retailer.
I went to Goodwill.
I went to the other discount retailer.
At this point or thereabouts I remembered why I hate shopping.
And why Amazon is well on its way to ruling the world.
And why I should never leave my house.
My not-local, non-thrifted, Amazon Prime credenza arrives on Monday. Until then, I'll keep my classy teapot on an ironing board.
My heart practically never feels "prepared for worship" on Sunday mornings. Today it felt like my soul limped into church with mud caked on its feet.
Both photos taken by the beautiful and talented Jenny Reid
I'm not sure what it would feel like to have my act together. When we took our photogenic trip to Williamsburg recently, most of us forgot our pj's, I forgot documentation to obtain our tickets, and both boys forgot their packed suitcases entirely--that's no toothbrush, no clothes, no underwear, for the three-day trip. Photo evidence confirms this. The bright side was that Caleb's One Shirt was tie-dyed, which is a good choice if you're going to wear it through nine meals and several tours through dirt.
I think we need a new name for my to-do list, such as "list of the perpetually undone," or, "never gonna happen" list. Poor Jason spent half the day Saturday wrestling with stubbornly maladjusted Roman shades before declaring that he now knows why the Roman empire fell--the damn shades were too complicated, so Nero set them on fire after they drove him crazy.
I don't think I'm a perfectionist, but my house falls way below my preferred cleanliness standard.
I'm busy [and lazy], we have an active family at home, cleaning isn't my favorite leisure activity; but really, the Sisyphean task of trying to keep on top of it is just demoralizing.
Some of my kids are struggling in school. I wonder, and worry, lately whether I haven't done a good job teaching them or whether I'm doing the right thing with them now.
All of my kids are sinners. Lately my ears have been ringing with complaints, whining, and infighting. Add that to my "more miracles to pray for" list.
I frequently feel uncomfortably pudgy--a result of hoping one more helping will make life more manageable--or at least taste good while I put off managing.
All these thoughts muck up my soul-feet by Sunday morning. I'm worried, trying not to be worried, berating myself for anguishing over first-world problems, distracted, and discouraged.
At the heart of the weight in my chest is, Am I good enough?
I'm a worrier, I'm a hot mess, I'm a suboptimal housekeeper, and I harbor the very sins I despise in my kids.
Am I good enough?
It's almost like God knew what He was doing when He instituted the Sabbath and set up a recurring weekly day of corporate worship, when we rehearse together, again, the truth.
Yes, we are hot mess sinners.
But His grace is greater. Jesus took it all. We are seated with Him in the heavenly places. We are utterly secure and utterly loved. He will never let us go.
He is good enough. He is so good. He clothes me in His goodness, wraps me up in it like a fuzzy burrito blanket, and accepts me with joy and singing over me.
I may not walk into church next week "prepared for worship." But by His grace, I will once again walk out prepared to worship--singing of the God who sings over me, His beloved, wrapped up in Christ's righteousness and counted good.
