disproportionate grace

 

Joy

Happy Birthday M.

Long before the births of my bio-grandchildren, you opened my heart to the possibility of grand-parenting. 

I remember well the moment years ago when the strong young woman God chose as your mother announced her pregnancy. 

"Congratulations!" was my response.

There is joy!

Happy Birthday M.

R

Truth Be Told

2:15PM 

I am running away, with a large Diet Coke from Jack in the Box. I am sitting in my car in a shaded parking spot at Mastodon State Park.

It is Thursday and I am tired-- weary of whining codependent people who seem to think that I somehow possess an endless supply of empathy (while being keenly aware I too am a whining codependent). I am tired-- exhausted in supporting my sister in her choice to care for our aging parents in their home, a choice that is crushing her in so many ways.  

I am tired-- drained by living in Ashleigh Woods, a Truman Show replica, a subdivision of gazebos and picture perfect $300k houses where the garage is the most frequent point of entry and front doors remain unopened. I am tired of living where there is little or no room for me, where heating a cup of water for instant coffee leaves me feeling as though I am intruding. In response I retreat to the 12 x 12 room that serves as my bedroom, my office, my home-- the room shared walk-in closet containing women's Poshmark-worthy fashions and my limited Goodwill collection of spring-summer casual clothing.

I am thankful for the room's generous windows facing north-northwest and framing the forested bluff and the clear blue sky, where I can watch red-tailed hawks soar over the bluff.

I am tired of needing tires on my car. I am ashamed of not earning income enough to promptly pay the $300 rent due each month on my room, and I feel a bit guilty that I drive through Culver's too often and pay storage fees for stuff I desire, but probably do not need: two wicker rockers, photographs, books, and warm winter clothing.

I am tired of groceries, office supplies, and toilet paper going on my Red Card, the balance rising toward the credit limit with each purchase.  

I am tired of living in emotional and physical celibacy. 

I am weary of being a sparrow in a sea of flamingos.

I miss the flawed sanctuary of my studio apartment at Taravue and the companionship of my dog, Harley, who was with me until August 27th of 2018... or 2019. My heart breaks with vivid memories of our last day together and the frustration of being unable to remember which year.

I miss friends and family in Wisconsin-- people who knew my husband and think of me as married or part of a couple, even though he's been gone nearly five years now.

"Truth Be Told" by Matthew West comes on the car radio-- tuned into JoyFM Saint Louis: Lie number one, you're supposed to have it all together...

I listen to the lyrics. I am soothed by the song, then suddenly squirm with the need for a restroom-- one of the disadvantages of being nearly 60 years old. I compose myself and walk toward the park's public restrooms, hoping these are unlocked in this claustrophobic Covid-19 world. Blessing-- the blessing of flush toilets, hand soap, running water and toilet paper. 

On the walk back to the car I detour over a walk bridge and through a picnic shelter with a large grill on one end and a horseshoe court on the other. The trail beckons and I walk on, following the path of white crushed rocks away from my car and toward the stream bed I know is there.

This part of Mastodon Park reminds me of the Ledges State Park in Boone County, Iowa-- especially the shallow, inviting waterways. Our son and daughter-in-law brought me here once, to Mastodon, along with the first two grandchildren, and we spent the day in the creek bed-- the warmth of the Saint Louis summer subdued by the shade of ample trees and the flow of cool water. 

When a choice-- a fork in the path-- comes, I choose the longer one which I believe will bring me out near my car. I pass on the option of the much-much-much longer Limestone Hill Trail, and come out of the woods where I'd anticipated. A sign where the path breaks into the clearing reads, "Spring Branch Trail .8 mile loop." That is far enough, given I am wearing flip flops. 

I had not planned to walk at all and I feel better having done so. None of the many things that leave me tired have changed, yet, somehow, a short walk in the gentle woods has soothed me.

God is not surprised.

R