The title might seem a little sacrilegious, but I think I am not amiss, these days, in praising God for small mercies . . . and maybe they're not so small, really.
Last night, shortly after I wrote the last post, I guess, the lights came back on. I didn't get to experience them until tonight, as I was still staying with Pastor Ron and Mrs. Dona, but ah, is it ever a relief!
Showing posts with label maintenance. Show all posts
Showing posts with label maintenance. Show all posts
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Christmas
The balloon ended up deflating in a flood of tears rather than a round of screaming, and the techs who did my first radiation treatment this afternoon (who were women, and not the guys of the initial visit) thought I was crying because I was upset about the treatment.
I suppose there might have been something in that. But mostly it's because I feel that, like the Milk Guy's appliances, my circuits are fried--by a whole lot of little things rather than one big thing. And added to that is guilt. Huge amounts of guilt.
I live in a "developed" country. I am not homeless. I have healthcare. I have friends with electricity and food and . . . heck, I haven't had to cook or go grocery shopping in weeks. The Nurse Practitioner's comment kind of rankles, because I want to be selfless, but apparently only on my own terms. I used to think I would go On The Mission Field for the rest of my life and maybe live somewhere less "developed" than this country and, you know . . . have to boil water or something. I've been in many different countries and managed the hole-in-the-ground toilets and eating mystery foods with my fingers and washing my face in a bowl of water and wearing the same clothes days in a row, and it didn't bother me at all. But I chose to go there and do those things, and those were the things that were "done" in certain locations.
Those things aren't generally done here, and I had no control over the circumstances bringing them about. It's not like a camping trip, which I don't enjoy much either, but which I can choose and modulate a little. And so everything in me revolts (as it does in many people, I've observed). I can listen to myself and think I sound absolutely pathetic, and yet I'm still a bundle of nerves because I can't flick a lightswitch and see the entire room.
I feel that the timing of this "ordeal" (which I feel is an unfair word, because this could have been so much worse--it's no Katrina) is sort of interesting. By which I mean, it's making me think of Christmas a little differently. Usually there's all this talk about "the true meaning of Christmas" and to some extent, I usually squint my brain every year and try to remind myself that the birth of Jesus is so much more important than the Christmas tree and that it wasn't all pretty and cozy and lights. Not . . . that there's anything wrong with that.
This year I'm probably about as distracted from the birth of Christ as I've ever been, but I can't pretend I'm not interacting with it on some level all the same. There's so much going on in my life right now, and there's this kind of deprivation, and there's a very distinct (if presently guilt-inducing) reminder that Christmas is actually about inconvenience and deprivation. Jesus gave up all his glory (light! weightiness! splendour!) and schlepped around in a Roman-occupied "under-developed" country for thirty-some years, talking to a bunch of people who often didn't get what He was talking about. And Mary and Joseph gave up their reputations, and had to pack up their lives and trek down to Bethlehem, and then down to Egypt, and their lives were in upheaval for, oh . . . pretty much the rest of them.
Jesus kind of does that, I think. I suspect Mary and Joseph had to come to terms with that more than once. Unless, of course, they had no controlling tendencies at all . . . I kind of doubt it. But maybe I'm just thinking like that to make myself feel better.
I suppose there might have been something in that. But mostly it's because I feel that, like the Milk Guy's appliances, my circuits are fried--by a whole lot of little things rather than one big thing. And added to that is guilt. Huge amounts of guilt.
I live in a "developed" country. I am not homeless. I have healthcare. I have friends with electricity and food and . . . heck, I haven't had to cook or go grocery shopping in weeks. The Nurse Practitioner's comment kind of rankles, because I want to be selfless, but apparently only on my own terms. I used to think I would go On The Mission Field for the rest of my life and maybe live somewhere less "developed" than this country and, you know . . . have to boil water or something. I've been in many different countries and managed the hole-in-the-ground toilets and eating mystery foods with my fingers and washing my face in a bowl of water and wearing the same clothes days in a row, and it didn't bother me at all. But I chose to go there and do those things, and those were the things that were "done" in certain locations.
Those things aren't generally done here, and I had no control over the circumstances bringing them about. It's not like a camping trip, which I don't enjoy much either, but which I can choose and modulate a little. And so everything in me revolts (as it does in many people, I've observed). I can listen to myself and think I sound absolutely pathetic, and yet I'm still a bundle of nerves because I can't flick a lightswitch and see the entire room.
I feel that the timing of this "ordeal" (which I feel is an unfair word, because this could have been so much worse--it's no Katrina) is sort of interesting. By which I mean, it's making me think of Christmas a little differently. Usually there's all this talk about "the true meaning of Christmas" and to some extent, I usually squint my brain every year and try to remind myself that the birth of Jesus is so much more important than the Christmas tree and that it wasn't all pretty and cozy and lights. Not . . . that there's anything wrong with that.
This year I'm probably about as distracted from the birth of Christ as I've ever been, but I can't pretend I'm not interacting with it on some level all the same. There's so much going on in my life right now, and there's this kind of deprivation, and there's a very distinct (if presently guilt-inducing) reminder that Christmas is actually about inconvenience and deprivation. Jesus gave up all his glory (light! weightiness! splendour!) and schlepped around in a Roman-occupied "under-developed" country for thirty-some years, talking to a bunch of people who often didn't get what He was talking about. And Mary and Joseph gave up their reputations, and had to pack up their lives and trek down to Bethlehem, and then down to Egypt, and their lives were in upheaval for, oh . . . pretty much the rest of them.
Jesus kind of does that, I think. I suspect Mary and Joseph had to come to terms with that more than once. Unless, of course, they had no controlling tendencies at all . . . I kind of doubt it. But maybe I'm just thinking like that to make myself feel better.
Don't Stress the Cancer-Girl
When I first met the Nurse Practitioner at the Comprehensive Breast Center, she sat me down and said, "You seem like the type of person who's always thinking of others first, so you need to shift gears a little bit. While you're working through this cancer diagnosis and treatment, you need to just work on taking care of yourself and getting better. This time is about you. You need to have as little stress as possible."
Too bad nobody told the New England climate and global warming that.
Right now I feel like somebody put an alarm clock inside my stomach--that old-fashioned kind that jumps around in cartoons when it rings--and that in a second it's going to go off, and I'm going to go flying around the room like an untied balloon and scream my head off like . . . me when I'm stressed and nobody but God is around to hear me. Right now, I'm so on-the-edge that I might do it even though other people besides God are around to hear me. It will not be pretty.
Yesterday some girl came into Starbucks and said glumly that her power was still out, and I said mine was too, and she said she heard that her neighbourhood wouldn't be up and running until after Christmas.
Christmas is next week, folks. The power went out last Thursday.
And my father and my brother and my sister-in-law and my baby niece and my grandmothers and my uncle will converge on my mother and me and our house, and if we don't have lights? Um, excuse me? This is not okay.
I'm staying in the city for the mid-part of this week, at Pastor Ron and Mrs. Donna's apartment with them, and it's a huge help, but I never seem to have everything I need with me in the same place at any given time, and for example I realised two hours ago that I did not bring enough changes of clothing for the number of days I'm going to be here, and I don't have internet at church, and I don't have church phone numbers at the apartment, and I have two magazine articles to write, and a confirmation class to organize and two youth group events to cancel and the Milk Guy's power came back and then surged and fried some of his appliances and even though that doesn't directly affect me, it kind of stresses me out, too.
I think National Grid should have consulted me. I'm glad they got Old Church street up and running so that Old Church could provide food for those of us less fortunate and so that the nursing home on the same power line would be able to keep running. Hear hear. But didn't anybody tell them that there's a cancer survivor on my street, who's starting radiation today? And if they didn't, why not?
Too bad nobody told the New England climate and global warming that.
Right now I feel like somebody put an alarm clock inside my stomach--that old-fashioned kind that jumps around in cartoons when it rings--and that in a second it's going to go off, and I'm going to go flying around the room like an untied balloon and scream my head off like . . . me when I'm stressed and nobody but God is around to hear me. Right now, I'm so on-the-edge that I might do it even though other people besides God are around to hear me. It will not be pretty.
Yesterday some girl came into Starbucks and said glumly that her power was still out, and I said mine was too, and she said she heard that her neighbourhood wouldn't be up and running until after Christmas.
Christmas is next week, folks. The power went out last Thursday.
And my father and my brother and my sister-in-law and my baby niece and my grandmothers and my uncle will converge on my mother and me and our house, and if we don't have lights? Um, excuse me? This is not okay.
I'm staying in the city for the mid-part of this week, at Pastor Ron and Mrs. Donna's apartment with them, and it's a huge help, but I never seem to have everything I need with me in the same place at any given time, and for example I realised two hours ago that I did not bring enough changes of clothing for the number of days I'm going to be here, and I don't have internet at church, and I don't have church phone numbers at the apartment, and I have two magazine articles to write, and a confirmation class to organize and two youth group events to cancel and the Milk Guy's power came back and then surged and fried some of his appliances and even though that doesn't directly affect me, it kind of stresses me out, too.
I think National Grid should have consulted me. I'm glad they got Old Church street up and running so that Old Church could provide food for those of us less fortunate and so that the nursing home on the same power line would be able to keep running. Hear hear. But didn't anybody tell them that there's a cancer survivor on my street, who's starting radiation today? And if they didn't, why not?
Monday, December 15, 2008
Dependence
I feel that there are some lessons to be learned here about dependence. Whether or not I learn them remains to be seen. But since the power outage on Thursday I have:
1. Showered at the Clevelands'.
2. Eaten breakfast at my Old Church.
3. Done laundry and watched a movie at Pastor Steve and Pastor Val's. ("Pastor Val" is not really what anyone calls her, but it is essentially what she is, so that's her name for this blog. So there.)
4. Worshipped at my Old Church because my New Church didn't have power either.
5. Had dinner with five other families at the Barrows'.
6. Availed myself of the Clevelands' intervention with my car.
7. Used the Barrows' computer.
8. Used my computer at the Barrows' house.
I also anticipate staying at a friend's or friends' in the City a couple of nights this week.
Besides all that, I have spent the entire autumn depending on rides and hand-outs and cooking and cry-on-able shoulders of various and sundry friends and relations before this weather-related disaster, because of my health-related sort-of-disaster.
This is hard for an American. And a New Englander. And a Jennwith2ns.
I feel very dependent. The cancer diagnosis made me feel dependent on people in new ways. The "Ice Tornado" (as some people have dubbed it) has not only heightened that feeling, but also kind of highlighted how dependent I am on things that are not people. Like electricity. And my telephone. And the internet. And my car. And clear roadways. And showering.
The whole ordeal is very blessed and very irritating (two qualities which may, I suspect, belong together more often than not). Most of all I'm realising how God is the only one I can depend on. But I'm also resonating more fully with Teresa of Avila, when she told God, "If this is the way you treat your friends, it's no wonder you have so few!” (I also resonate with her saying, however, “What a great favor God does to those He places in the company of good people!”)
1. Showered at the Clevelands'.
2. Eaten breakfast at my Old Church.
3. Done laundry and watched a movie at Pastor Steve and Pastor Val's. ("Pastor Val" is not really what anyone calls her, but it is essentially what she is, so that's her name for this blog. So there.)
4. Worshipped at my Old Church because my New Church didn't have power either.
5. Had dinner with five other families at the Barrows'.
6. Availed myself of the Clevelands' intervention with my car.
7. Used the Barrows' computer.
8. Used my computer at the Barrows' house.
I also anticipate staying at a friend's or friends' in the City a couple of nights this week.
Besides all that, I have spent the entire autumn depending on rides and hand-outs and cooking and cry-on-able shoulders of various and sundry friends and relations before this weather-related disaster, because of my health-related sort-of-disaster.
This is hard for an American. And a New Englander. And a Jennwith2ns.
I feel very dependent. The cancer diagnosis made me feel dependent on people in new ways. The "Ice Tornado" (as some people have dubbed it) has not only heightened that feeling, but also kind of highlighted how dependent I am on things that are not people. Like electricity. And my telephone. And the internet. And my car. And clear roadways. And showering.
The whole ordeal is very blessed and very irritating (two qualities which may, I suspect, belong together more often than not). Most of all I'm realising how God is the only one I can depend on. But I'm also resonating more fully with Teresa of Avila, when she told God, "If this is the way you treat your friends, it's no wonder you have so few!” (I also resonate with her saying, however, “What a great favor God does to those He places in the company of good people!”)
Fed Up
On Friday I was going to write a post that went a little something like this:
"I have decided that I think that auto insurance and health insurance plans should merge. I do not think I should have to pay more money this year for ailing anything."
I figured by this you would know that I was having car trouble.
It turned out, though, that I wasn't having car trouble. I was just stupid. I don't want to tell you what I did, because then the full extent of my idiocy would be on the internet for all to read, and I need to retain at least some self-respect . . .
But anyway, before I found out all that, and before I could whinge about it, we had an ice storm. As the Milk Guy said, "I used to kind of like ice storms. They made things all shiny."
Yeah. Not anymore. I lay in my bed all night on Thursday (after the power had already gone out), listening to tree after after tree losing life and limb. You might know I kind of like trees. I felt like crying for them. I was also scared out of my brains that one of them was going to fall on my house.
It's kind of surprising one didn't. The yard is a wreck. The road is a wreck. I would like to know why I voted to keep our state tax, when so far nothing has been done (except by neighbours) to take care of the trees leaning on power lines and the branches dangling precariously above the road. I'm immensely grateful my mom has been here during this ordeal, or I might actually have lost my mind, being in the house and dealing with this all by myself. (It hasn't been totally by myself, as it turns out, and as I will likely describe later, but it would have felt a lot more like it without Mom.) Still, I feel mighty close to losing my mind anyway. Fortunately there's a woodstove in the house, and people around who do have power, but meanwhile, we're filling up water bottles at friends's houses, flushing our toilets with water from a creek, washing dishes when we have to, showering elsewhere, and stumbling around in the dark. It doesn't look like things will get better any time soon.
I have a whole lot of processing going on in my head, but suffice it to say that right this second? This ordeal is bugging me a whole lot more than the cancer diagnosis ever did.
Plus, yesterday my exhaust system started dragging on the ground. Maybe I do have car trouble after all.
"I have decided that I think that auto insurance and health insurance plans should merge. I do not think I should have to pay more money this year for ailing anything."
I figured by this you would know that I was having car trouble.
It turned out, though, that I wasn't having car trouble. I was just stupid. I don't want to tell you what I did, because then the full extent of my idiocy would be on the internet for all to read, and I need to retain at least some self-respect . . .
But anyway, before I found out all that, and before I could whinge about it, we had an ice storm. As the Milk Guy said, "I used to kind of like ice storms. They made things all shiny."
Yeah. Not anymore. I lay in my bed all night on Thursday (after the power had already gone out), listening to tree after after tree losing life and limb. You might know I kind of like trees. I felt like crying for them. I was also scared out of my brains that one of them was going to fall on my house.
It's kind of surprising one didn't. The yard is a wreck. The road is a wreck. I would like to know why I voted to keep our state tax, when so far nothing has been done (except by neighbours) to take care of the trees leaning on power lines and the branches dangling precariously above the road. I'm immensely grateful my mom has been here during this ordeal, or I might actually have lost my mind, being in the house and dealing with this all by myself. (It hasn't been totally by myself, as it turns out, and as I will likely describe later, but it would have felt a lot more like it without Mom.) Still, I feel mighty close to losing my mind anyway. Fortunately there's a woodstove in the house, and people around who do have power, but meanwhile, we're filling up water bottles at friends's houses, flushing our toilets with water from a creek, washing dishes when we have to, showering elsewhere, and stumbling around in the dark. It doesn't look like things will get better any time soon.
I have a whole lot of processing going on in my head, but suffice it to say that right this second? This ordeal is bugging me a whole lot more than the cancer diagnosis ever did.
Plus, yesterday my exhaust system started dragging on the ground. Maybe I do have car trouble after all.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Plus . . .
The light fixture in the hallway burnt out three brand-new bulbs--one with a puff of smoke, even.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
And Now for Something (Sort Of) Completely Different . . .
David-of-Six says this post should instead be entitled, "Water, water everywhere, except the kitchen sink." He's right, actually, but I'm stubborn.
Back in June or something, the kitchen sink faucet started dripping. The Milk Guy came over for dinner one night, and after he had evicted the wasps that had moved into the grill (at some danger to himself) and had grilled our vegetables, I asked him, "Do you know how to fix dripping faucets?" He got a kind of roguish gleam in his eye, repositioned the water handle and said, "All fixed!" We both knew it wasn't, but it wasn't the hugest problem in the world, so I let him off.
My parents came to visit for a couple of weeks later in the summer and I asked my dad, "Do you know how to fix dripping faucets?" I got a similar response.
After my parents left, the dripping began under the sink. I couldn't find exactly where it was leaking from and figured I could manage with slight drips until my parents came home at Christmas, because who wants to fork out money for a plumber when it's not that big a deal? I put two plastic bins underneath the pipes, every so often bailing them out the back door.
After the Sixes moved in, the drips from the faucet were par for the course, and the drips under the sink had turned into torrents. Oh. The arm wasn't properly connected to one of the joints. That's easy enough to fix. We shoved the two pieces back together and the drips (at least the lower ones) stopped.
Then they started again. Not to mention the sink was clogging. David-of-Six replaced some of the piping under the sink. It didn't help.
On Thursday we (by which I mean the Sixes) called a plumber. The plumber couldn't make it until Monday. The kitchen was starting to smell. The sink was not draining. The dishwasher was backing up into it. Some of the other sinks were clogging up, too. "Pump your septic tank," Everybody said. Yesterday a guy came and pumped the septic tank. It was fine. Nothing was wrong with it. Fortunately. It was a good preventative measure, Everybody assured me. I'm sure it was. But the sink was still not draining, and it was still dripping. Also, now water spurts out from under the handle.
A friend called a drain-clearing company for us. They sent someone to us yesterday afternoon. He ran a snake down the pipes and wrestled with them for about two hours. There was, indeed, a clog. He removed the clog. In the meantime, he discovered that a pipe beyond the cellar wall had broken. Most of the water was still going down the pipe. Some of the rest of it (and its attendant sludge) was going into the insulation. Mmmm.
Licensing restrictions apparently prevented him from fixing the pipe. He was not sure he had removed all the sludge, but was afraid to try anymore, lest he damage the pipes further. He advised we call a plumber. The plumber, he said, could fix the pipe. The plumber could fix the leak. The plumber could fix the drips and the spray. Then, if the sink was still clogged, he--the Drain Guy--would come back for no extra charge and clear out the rest of the debris. He removed the piping immediately under the kitchen sink and turned the water off there.
So . . . we're still waiting for the plumber. Tonight we ate on paper plates. I lugged two-and-a-half days' worth of seven people's dishes into the basement and washed them in the lower level sink. While I did my laundry.
Back in June or something, the kitchen sink faucet started dripping. The Milk Guy came over for dinner one night, and after he had evicted the wasps that had moved into the grill (at some danger to himself) and had grilled our vegetables, I asked him, "Do you know how to fix dripping faucets?" He got a kind of roguish gleam in his eye, repositioned the water handle and said, "All fixed!" We both knew it wasn't, but it wasn't the hugest problem in the world, so I let him off.
My parents came to visit for a couple of weeks later in the summer and I asked my dad, "Do you know how to fix dripping faucets?" I got a similar response.
After my parents left, the dripping began under the sink. I couldn't find exactly where it was leaking from and figured I could manage with slight drips until my parents came home at Christmas, because who wants to fork out money for a plumber when it's not that big a deal? I put two plastic bins underneath the pipes, every so often bailing them out the back door.
After the Sixes moved in, the drips from the faucet were par for the course, and the drips under the sink had turned into torrents. Oh. The arm wasn't properly connected to one of the joints. That's easy enough to fix. We shoved the two pieces back together and the drips (at least the lower ones) stopped.
Then they started again. Not to mention the sink was clogging. David-of-Six replaced some of the piping under the sink. It didn't help.
On Thursday we (by which I mean the Sixes) called a plumber. The plumber couldn't make it until Monday. The kitchen was starting to smell. The sink was not draining. The dishwasher was backing up into it. Some of the other sinks were clogging up, too. "Pump your septic tank," Everybody said. Yesterday a guy came and pumped the septic tank. It was fine. Nothing was wrong with it. Fortunately. It was a good preventative measure, Everybody assured me. I'm sure it was. But the sink was still not draining, and it was still dripping. Also, now water spurts out from under the handle.
A friend called a drain-clearing company for us. They sent someone to us yesterday afternoon. He ran a snake down the pipes and wrestled with them for about two hours. There was, indeed, a clog. He removed the clog. In the meantime, he discovered that a pipe beyond the cellar wall had broken. Most of the water was still going down the pipe. Some of the rest of it (and its attendant sludge) was going into the insulation. Mmmm.
Licensing restrictions apparently prevented him from fixing the pipe. He was not sure he had removed all the sludge, but was afraid to try anymore, lest he damage the pipes further. He advised we call a plumber. The plumber, he said, could fix the pipe. The plumber could fix the leak. The plumber could fix the drips and the spray. Then, if the sink was still clogged, he--the Drain Guy--would come back for no extra charge and clear out the rest of the debris. He removed the piping immediately under the kitchen sink and turned the water off there.
So . . . we're still waiting for the plumber. Tonight we ate on paper plates. I lugged two-and-a-half days' worth of seven people's dishes into the basement and washed them in the lower level sink. While I did my laundry.
Saturday, September 23, 2006
Serendipity 2—The Sequel
(Still not a movie. Thank goodness.)
So the question is, why in the universe would God care about whether or not I had a working washing machine? Or whether or not Elaine was able to get rid of one?
These questions lead to other ones, such as: If God cares about the details surrounding household appliances, why didn’t He instead just keep my washing machine from breaking in the first place? Why didn’t He prevent the stuff that’s happened in Elaine’s family which led to (among other things) their needing to get rid of a washing machine? Why did my grandfather, who served God as a pastor for decades, have to get Alzheimer’s, and why does my grandmother, who served God for decades, too, have to spend her waning years more or less alone, caring for a man who lost most of his personhood years ago? Why did a good friend’s brother have to die in a car accident that wasn’t his fault? Why were so many of my friends abused by their fathers? Why do children get abducted? Why are people still getting slaughtered in Darfur? Why is there a war in Iraq?
Does God not care about anything else except washing machines? Is He unable to do anything about bigger stuff?
Sometimes, when I’m feeling cynical and clever and not very respectful, I say that God buys me off with parking spaces. By that I mean I pray for stuff that seems super-colossally monumental—including stuff it seems like would be in His best interest to perform—and nothing happens (unless the circumstances get worse), but if, say, I’m trying to find a place to park and I shoot up a quick request for that, a spot appears in a startlingly strategic location. And I’m not being completely dishonest here. The beginning of this year saw a couple of answers to some of my bigger prayers, and I found this amazing, but by and large, I find myself still praying about most of the same things with little, except parking spaces—oh, and now a washing machine—to show for it.
So if I start talking about how God got me a washing machine or a parking space, it sounds silly. Or insignificant. Or glib. Or smug.
But there’s another angle to all this. I don’t really have answers to the questions above. I have some hints and niggling thoughts and whispers of reasons, but nothing I can really pin down that makes me say, “Oh, well, it’s all okay then.” On the other hand, maybe sometimes those questions are the things that end up being smug.
It’s not smug to be brokenhearted about the brokenness of the world. But it might be a little bit that way to assume God isn’t either. Or that He doesn’t know what He’s doing (or I know better). Or that He doesn’t care. God’s crazy—or I am; anyway, the point is I don’t really know what’s going on. I don’t have the big picture. I don’t have the wisdom that the suffering of the world bestows—yet, or maybe ever.
But I do have a washing machine. Which I wouldn’t have if Sue had been home when I called her first. I didn’t make this happen. I can only assume God did. I can dismiss it as something little and stupid, or I can realize that things like that just don’t happen in the world we have, and the fact that it did must mean that God really is here, after all, and that He really does care—about individuals, even. And woe to me if that doesn’t make me fall down on my knees and be grateful.
(By the way, I am.)
(Still not a movie. Thank goodness.)
So the question is, why in the universe would God care about whether or not I had a working washing machine? Or whether or not Elaine was able to get rid of one?
These questions lead to other ones, such as: If God cares about the details surrounding household appliances, why didn’t He instead just keep my washing machine from breaking in the first place? Why didn’t He prevent the stuff that’s happened in Elaine’s family which led to (among other things) their needing to get rid of a washing machine? Why did my grandfather, who served God as a pastor for decades, have to get Alzheimer’s, and why does my grandmother, who served God for decades, too, have to spend her waning years more or less alone, caring for a man who lost most of his personhood years ago? Why did a good friend’s brother have to die in a car accident that wasn’t his fault? Why were so many of my friends abused by their fathers? Why do children get abducted? Why are people still getting slaughtered in Darfur? Why is there a war in Iraq?
Does God not care about anything else except washing machines? Is He unable to do anything about bigger stuff?
Sometimes, when I’m feeling cynical and clever and not very respectful, I say that God buys me off with parking spaces. By that I mean I pray for stuff that seems super-colossally monumental—including stuff it seems like would be in His best interest to perform—and nothing happens (unless the circumstances get worse), but if, say, I’m trying to find a place to park and I shoot up a quick request for that, a spot appears in a startlingly strategic location. And I’m not being completely dishonest here. The beginning of this year saw a couple of answers to some of my bigger prayers, and I found this amazing, but by and large, I find myself still praying about most of the same things with little, except parking spaces—oh, and now a washing machine—to show for it.
So if I start talking about how God got me a washing machine or a parking space, it sounds silly. Or insignificant. Or glib. Or smug.
But there’s another angle to all this. I don’t really have answers to the questions above. I have some hints and niggling thoughts and whispers of reasons, but nothing I can really pin down that makes me say, “Oh, well, it’s all okay then.” On the other hand, maybe sometimes those questions are the things that end up being smug.
It’s not smug to be brokenhearted about the brokenness of the world. But it might be a little bit that way to assume God isn’t either. Or that He doesn’t know what He’s doing (or I know better). Or that He doesn’t care. God’s crazy—or I am; anyway, the point is I don’t really know what’s going on. I don’t have the big picture. I don’t have the wisdom that the suffering of the world bestows—yet, or maybe ever.
But I do have a washing machine. Which I wouldn’t have if Sue had been home when I called her first. I didn’t make this happen. I can only assume God did. I can dismiss it as something little and stupid, or I can realize that things like that just don’t happen in the world we have, and the fact that it did must mean that God really is here, after all, and that He really does care—about individuals, even. And woe to me if that doesn’t make me fall down on my knees and be grateful.
(By the way, I am.)
Friday, September 22, 2006
Serendipity
(Not the movie, which I thought was a little lame, honestly, in spite of having had a crush on John Cusak when I was in high school, and continuing to have residual fond feelings for him even now.)
On Monday, my washing machine kicked it. Actually, it's my parents' washing machine, but let's not get nit-picky. The point is, I had a full load of sheets and towels in there, and another load of work clothes I was going to need for the week, and I couldn't clean them. I didn't have to work until later that afternoon, so I was privately and blissfully making an idiot of myself by working out to a salsa-based aerobics video in my living room, when this hideous screech, not unlike that of a chainsaw, began issuing from the basement. If I wouldn't have fallen headlong, I would have run down there with my hands over my ears, but instead I settled for gritting my teeth and squinting (which does nothing for volume but makes me think it does) as I galloped down the stairs to turn it off. It smelled like someone had been burning tyres down there.
The situation was not good. I had imminent out of town guests, and the only pair of sheets that fit on the bed they were meant to occupy was now sitting in a nonfunctional drum of water. Never having had to avail myself of such services in this area, I wasn't sure where the nearest laundromat ("launderette," for you British types) was, and I had neither the time nor inclination to locate it, so I phoned a family who lives down the street and also attends my church, to see if I could get some pity-laundry done over there.
No one was home.
There is one other family I know from church who lives a little further down the street. Their lives are in fairly massive upheaval right now, though, and there are numerous people crammed into their not-very-large house, and I really didn't want to add to anyone's stress. On the other hand, I was getting a little stressed myself, and self-preservation kicks in pretty readily with me. So I called.
"Can I come and do two quick loads of laundry over there? My dryer works--it's just the washing machine."
"Hang on a second," said Elaine, turning away from the phone to confer with someone in her general vicinity. When she turned back to me, she said, "Do you want a new washing machine?"
"What?"
"Do you want a washing machine? Kim wants to buy a new one, even though this one is perfectly fine and is only a couple of years old, and we just don't have room to have this one lying around. I was really worried this morning, trying to figure out what we were going to do with it, and I was going to tell her she couldn't get one because I don't know what to do with this. But maybe this is God's way of taking care of that."
I'm pretty sure it is. I'll unpack this some more later. For now, I'll just tell you that the laundry got done, and my friends had clean (and dry, and not-soapy) sheets to sleep on.
(Not the movie, which I thought was a little lame, honestly, in spite of having had a crush on John Cusak when I was in high school, and continuing to have residual fond feelings for him even now.)
On Monday, my washing machine kicked it. Actually, it's my parents' washing machine, but let's not get nit-picky. The point is, I had a full load of sheets and towels in there, and another load of work clothes I was going to need for the week, and I couldn't clean them. I didn't have to work until later that afternoon, so I was privately and blissfully making an idiot of myself by working out to a salsa-based aerobics video in my living room, when this hideous screech, not unlike that of a chainsaw, began issuing from the basement. If I wouldn't have fallen headlong, I would have run down there with my hands over my ears, but instead I settled for gritting my teeth and squinting (which does nothing for volume but makes me think it does) as I galloped down the stairs to turn it off. It smelled like someone had been burning tyres down there.
The situation was not good. I had imminent out of town guests, and the only pair of sheets that fit on the bed they were meant to occupy was now sitting in a nonfunctional drum of water. Never having had to avail myself of such services in this area, I wasn't sure where the nearest laundromat ("launderette," for you British types) was, and I had neither the time nor inclination to locate it, so I phoned a family who lives down the street and also attends my church, to see if I could get some pity-laundry done over there.
No one was home.
There is one other family I know from church who lives a little further down the street. Their lives are in fairly massive upheaval right now, though, and there are numerous people crammed into their not-very-large house, and I really didn't want to add to anyone's stress. On the other hand, I was getting a little stressed myself, and self-preservation kicks in pretty readily with me. So I called.
"Can I come and do two quick loads of laundry over there? My dryer works--it's just the washing machine."
"Hang on a second," said Elaine, turning away from the phone to confer with someone in her general vicinity. When she turned back to me, she said, "Do you want a new washing machine?"
"What?"
"Do you want a washing machine? Kim wants to buy a new one, even though this one is perfectly fine and is only a couple of years old, and we just don't have room to have this one lying around. I was really worried this morning, trying to figure out what we were going to do with it, and I was going to tell her she couldn't get one because I don't know what to do with this. But maybe this is God's way of taking care of that."
I'm pretty sure it is. I'll unpack this some more later. For now, I'll just tell you that the laundry got done, and my friends had clean (and dry, and not-soapy) sheets to sleep on.
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