rachel twelmeyer




Blowing It

 

I’ve had a few face plants this week, moments where I glance up from the ground with skewed glasses and mud on my face. And it hurt. My pride is apparently more delicate than I’d hoped and it’s taking all my effort to not send my husband a self-loathing text describing how utterly useless I am.

 

I am not useless. I scrubbed my bathtub and my toilet. I ate half of a giant mango and made my boy an egg-in-a-hole with lots of butter. I finished an assignment all about hormones and their effects on ovarian cycles, menopause, ovulation. It’s taking all my teaspoon’s worth of pluck to keep myself from crumbling; like trying to save a pie dough that’s just flour crumbles.

 

I thought about repentance this morning – real repentance, not guilt-induced penance. If Christ really preached that much about repentance, about getting up from the dirt and mustering the courage to accept the need to change, doesn’t that mean that He’s neither surprised nor discouraged by our blunders? I think about something Dr. Jennifer Finlayson-Fife said – that perhaps life isn’t one of those army obstacle courses God formulated just so for each one of us. Maybe God just put the earth spinning, expecting and allowing things to happen, and instead of trying to calculate just what we’re meant to learn from all this, perhaps the real goal is to find what good we can contribute. My kitchen is a disastrous mess: my boy doesn’t eat apples, he just chews them up and spits them out; I left the 1/4 quiche out last night that should have been today’s lunch, and it’s still sitting there; and there’s a smattering of the past three days’ activities on the counter – but I can do good there. It’s awful, but I can make it a little better. I don’t know how this principle applies to the crummy things happening in the government, or how to help all those suffering in the world, but it will get me through this day of nursing an aching pride.