We are cuddled and there are lots of tears as I explain the weeding of the whine and how it must happen now. And suddenly I realize that perhaps I've been wandering around. Yes, I have. I am in a desert of whine.
It is bedtime and we turn off the lights and pray for grace for the next day.
The next day arrives quickly. I lace up and head out the door for a morning run and prayer.
It comes to me as I put one foot in front of the other. A little pain here and there from the constant hammering I've done with these legs. I can't concentrate on it or it will stop me in my tracks. One foot in front of the other, but not looking down, not watching each step, looking ahead at the trees and the glory of the day.
And I realize, I've been whining and it is time to quit whining. I'm looking down and not up. I need to love where we are and what we are doing here and now. I've focused on the long long grass we can't cut because the mowers broken and we are busy and the dark peeling paint and the rusty this and the smelly that and the rodent that has set up shop right in my living room where it is cool and dry and the room I want to set up for homeschooling that doesn't exist.
I cant' have a "happy heart" as I've told my children time and time again, because I'm more concerned about what I think will make me happy when I'm totally engrossed in what I don't like about life.
It is time to look up and find joy, so off to start the day. Within an hour, I grab something from the top drawer and a snake is coiled in the corner. I am scared silly and alone with William. It isn't poisonous and I take the drawer and snake outside to slither away.
But I've decided not to whine, so I laugh and send the picture to George and my sister and my heart beats fast.
I know my house is clean and that I live in the Florida woods and we might just have to deal with a bit of a pest issue for the month of August. I can't argue with God right now. I've decided not to whine. I smile and drive to get the children and call a friend that I've thought of since the run.
She is sick and weak and having surgery next week. I tell her we will bring dinner at 5:30 and play with the kids and help next week.
We arrive with dinner in the rain and the sun and I look for the rainbow and there it is. Full. Complete.
A promise there that the snake and the grass and the rodent and the laundry and the room that isn't there are under my feet and not up in the sky.
And we return home late with empty containers and full bellies and such joy. I say it isn't fair that it feels so good to help someone else feel good.
I'm on my way out of the wilderness.