Here I am. In the kitchen. There’s a big pot on the stove, bubbling away. I have my extra long wooden spoon and I’m poking things down into the boiling water, as they surface for air.
I wish I could tell you that it’s a delightful batch of my homemade ravioli that I’ve risen, like the Proverbs 31 woman, at dawn to prepare.
No. It’s my clothes that are in the big lobster pot Holly Ramsay gave me for a shower gift, back in ’88. I could never have imagined, at that pinnacle of naïveté, any items of mine gasping for air, in that very pot. (Actually, at that point, I don’t think I could have imagined these particular garments either.)
We have been plagued with ticks. It’s just the latest in many insect and wildlife plagues. I am no Moses–as I pointed out to God, just last week!–and I have been going crazy. We had an exterminator in, last Monday on our anniversary (so romantic!) and they promised a two part annihilation-bombing-thing. They came and we had to evacuate the house for several hours.
So, imagine my surprise, at five-thirty this morning, to find several offspring, alive and well, marching across one of my very favorite Target purchases; apparently there were survivors of the tick-apocalypse from last week.
That’s why I’m at the stove. Whining to the LORD about not having hot water in the taps here. Whining about the ticks. Just whining in general.
It occurs to me, once again, that it doesn’t matter what you’re going through; it matters how you handle it. I may have blithely sailed through the last two weeks, with all the violence on the streets. I may have calmly smiled at the Military Police while they pointed the huge automatic weapons in my face. But this? This seemed harder. This wasn’t a blaze of possible glory; this was a massive inconvenience, and something that really schifo-ed me.
The difference? I didn’t move a foot without praying, out there on the streets. And the results were apparent. I was calm, peaceful and very aware that God was right there.
Unfortunately, my prayer about these ticks included me telling God what He needed to do for me, accompanied by much complaining. I never asked for His Grace to deal with this plague. I never asked Him to take over my reactions, so that I could see Him in this, too. Once again, especially in the little things, He wants to teach me that His Grace is sufficient. And that my reliance on Him is very sweet to Him, as well as very necessary to me.
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