How many month-a-versaries has it been? Life grabs you by the lapels sometimes and just won't. quit. shaking. Until your teeth are rattling out of your skull and you think you can't take any more and then, slowly and ever, ever so softly you come to a rest in a field. And all is calm, and quiet... and you think.. nope, I cannot trust it.
That's exactly where I am right now.
Sitting in the middle of a field. Bruised and battered. Safe. And I do not trust it. Not in the slightest. Because for every up there is a down.
For every "I respect you and the work that you do" is a "we don't need you anymore". For every bill paid on time is another half dozen past due. For every, "let's pay off our friends and family" there's a "can we make the office into a bedroom?" And for every office made into a bedroom, there's someone who'd rather be homeless and high than safe and sober. For every olive branch extended is a second chance forgotten. For every projector screen, and blue tooth device, and HDMI switch, and window motor, there's a box full of clothing and broken glass. Life refuses to be perfect. To be neat, orderly, and tied in a bow. I suppose, if it was, where would we get our great stories from? Where's the adventure in normalcy? Where's the thrill in complacency?
So I sit, and pick the petals off of a daisy. I wait, for the storm clouds to rush in. I pray and I look to heaven on my scabbed and scarred knees and ask whatever God will listen to hear me. Hear me. hear me.
I like it here. I don't want to leave. I want to take my home, my family, and wrap it in a shiny bow. I'd gladly take a douse of normalcy and complacency for an ounce of security and if that makes me square... So be it. As you can see these wounds take time to heal. But if you have patience for my wrecked caterpillar of a body, I can guarantee you're in for one kick ass butterfly.