Would I, Could I, Should I?

     I'm sitting in the Social Services office applying for help.  Mike drove me here yesterday to begin the processes.  I wouldn't feel so lame if this were the first time.
     I cut several inches off my hair this morning because the "long tall Sally" look isn't working for someone who's looking more like Wynonna Judd.  I wouldn't feel so lame if this were the first time.
     I was at odds with Mike the whole 2 1/2 weeks he was home.  We're having a hard time liking each other, much less loving.  The romance reconnection superceded the friend one and we're both disappointed that our recommitment hasn't been the glorious reconciliation we had fantasized of. I wouldn't feel so lame if this were the first time.
     I'm in the way again.  In the depths of my conscience, I question, "But it's been over 20 years of this."  God hears and says, "I'm still working.  Would you just stay out of my way."
     I fight for things that aren't mine to fight for.  I try to right things that aren't mine to right.  I've buffered the static for things that aren't meant to be silenced.  When I'm quiet, my "friends", be sure that I'm in a clamorous battle, my pilgrimage made difficult by own interference.
     Huh, in this lobby of misfits, there's a young couple just like we were, attentive to their precious little ones, passing bananas out to keep them occupied.  He has on a familiar boot for an injury.  She is well kempt but needs to shed some pounds.  There is tension between them as she asks him to help her.  I wish I could impart something, anything to them.  Though, it'd help if I'd conquered much myself since then.
     At home, we've spent these last weeks weighing options.  The truck needs extensive repairs.  Mike and Michael Jr. had worked for days and hours when Michael discovered a temporary fix.  It's on the road now and left behind $166 in the bank.
     I just finished an interview with a Medicaid worker.  I have such dubious feelings about it all: faithless and patrioticless, that my hand resisted putting pen to paper for the application.
     Her stomach growled so loudly that we both laughed.  She explained that her nightly dialysis left no time to prepare a meal, so she went to bed.  As the paperwork went on, the conversation led to her old friend, who'd given birth to 10 children and as the last one took flight, her sister and her husband were killed in a car wreck leaving her 8 more in the nest - sobering, and goes back to what I expressed about "mother of many" not being an automatic "ticket" for anything - it beckons my humility - which without, no act of mine or anyone's is of Christ.
     Yesterday's worker (office #1355 :) shared that the case load in her 12 years has swelled from 250 to well over 500.  That speaks to the economy and the depression we're already in, instead of approaching. 
     Food - we had stored, more for a disaster than a depression.  It's come in very handy though.  Sauces, broth, herbs, and peppers make a tremendous difference in the taste I can offer the family; I'm so thankful for that.  I'll tell you too that opening a gallon can of nacho cheese can cause a stir!  A busy summer has left our free range chickens too free and not laying; we haven't gotten to the point of slaughtering anything yet (but perhaps we should be).  I've seen where we lack in dairy and protein preparedness but have enjoyed the challenge of putting the fresh, frozen, and canned garden things together with what else we had put back (including mounds of wheat from Y2K ;) ...which leads to my questions about the whole situation.
     I've always said I'd rather live in a tent than to break apart what we've built with teaching the children.  They're turning out "right".  They possibly will be the only "right" we will have contributed.  That answer pleased one of our workers and I will be pleased too to only leave that as my heritage.  I heard recently that the son of A.A. Milne, creator of Pooh, was quoted that his Dad spent all his time entertaining other children instead of him.  I can't go down like that.
     So, am I willing to set up camp?  I tossed about the idea of shacking up in the big storage building we still have in the mountains.  Being on top of each other wasn't appealing to anyone.  For years, I've been drawn freakishly to the notion that there is excitement in getting our hands that dirty, seeing if we might possess what it takes to live off the land.  After all, John the Baptist ate locusts and honey.  To force the children into such conditions, by quitting the over the road business altogether (as I've proposed), is a delicate dilemma.   Although, while I was gone seeking assistance today, they were all out "running away" with Madalynn :) because Daddy wouldn't take her in the truck for fear that it'd break down.  They hiked down by the creek; Michael started a fire with just flint and a cotton ball; Macklynn caught several fish and wanted to cook them; they were happy as larks when they popped back out of the woods.
     We're eying up the road a cheaply priced quaint old home that has been restored on the inside but not the out.  Is it time to purchase before bad credit prevents it?  Is it even possible?  Are we prolonging the inevitable?  We're in debt out the wazoo just to stay afloat.  Family has bent over backwards to help.  What should we do?
     There is a problem in being the woman of the couple.  I love my position;  I also hand over my independence by doing so.  Husbands have authority to do as they will and in trusting God, we depend on them.  That's a very, very hard row to hoe.  I don't hoe it very well and that might be why I'm hoeing the same old spots after 23 years.
     Tithing (not to be mistaken with philanthropy which is person centered, not God centered) - I 100% believe is the missing element.  We're always against a wall that "prevents" it, which proves to me all the more why it's the "mystery" link.  What we've been doing surely isn't working, no matter how we've gone about it.  An opportunity to grace someone we know, who is working overseas for Samaritan's Purse, presented itself last week.  It's kinda scary to hand back 10%; at the same time, it delights me thoroughly that we could go from "hit and miss" giving to hitting all the time!
     In the passenger's seat on the way home yesterday, I became limp.  You know when the ride jostles your head around?  How I long to remain in that state, away from my own defenses, ready for instruction.
     Instead, I let simple things dishearten me, like the editor's pick list from the contest I entered.  I wasn't on it.  My video was thrown together but I had a spark of hope anyway.  What am I thinking?  I'm nowhere near close to ready for a national stage.
     Our kitchen is the best stage I can think of right now.  In creatively scraping together meals, I've been in there a lot and grow more connected as I go.  Being "center stage" keeps me in on everyone's intricacies.  I'm also grasping the excess that remains since our last "downsizing".  5 of 8 of us are overweight, although that's shifting already.  But too many hours are still spent on meaningless things, namely useless entertainment.  Too much clutter is creeping in, while thankfulness and kindness are in too short of supply.
     So, who am I to get frustrated so readily with Mike?  It's a long journey from cursing to blessing, discontent to thankful, despicable to likeable, lazy to industrious, crude to conscientious, dependent to free.  I should know, I'm still on my own journey to good.
     In prior "downtimes", he'd have never settled for granola as a meal, for TV service disruption, for blood clear of substance, for talking with bill collectors in my stead, and all at the expense of anyone, including the children's modest accounts.  It's true, and as I sit here waiting on another appointment, I'm slammed with the reality that Mike is not who he once was but, like so many of us, is also not who he's going to be. 
     I don't cut him a break and I didn't understand myself why, until I figured today that since he's given me a voice, it's terribly difficult to restrict it, especially when I'm certain I'm right.  To settle back into a way of respect, trust, and submission is far easier said than done.  But I ...have ...to ...find ...it.
     As I was writing all this in my notebook from various slips of paper, the woman 2 seats down at Social Services asked me if I was grading papers.  I told her I was just cataloging more of our crazy story, a compulsion I have to write as a witness of things to come.  Her name is Melonie.  "Her" story brought "mine" to a screeching halt.  I'm convinced I had a meeting with destiny because hers is fading away, literally.  She says she has cancer and lives in her car.  She's 51, but her beautiful hair and teeth don't show it.  We talked over healthcare, politics, and religion.  When she said she used to believe in God, I surprised myself by crying when I told her I'm sure there is eternity and it might not look like it, but God loves her.  She cried too.  I may never see the harvest of her on Earth, perhaps because I would relish it too much, but my pitiful seed planting self will pray earnestly for her because her hardness was broken for a split second and that's where hope is born.  In wrapping things up here, I'd say for you to pray for us and I hope you do; but as always, someone else, like Melonie, needs it more.  So no matter what she did to get as alone as she is, would you, could you, should you hit your knees with me before she's alone forever?  You and I were there once or maybe you're there now, so if you don't believe anything else I write, believe there's more out there than what you can see.