Public service announcement: I AM NOT writing this in a hormonal state. I AM writing this from a hotel suite that thankfully insurance is footing. For those of you who don't already know, the basement floor and even the ceiling of the house we rent were flooded by a septic backup.
Mike, 5 of the kids, and I have been here for 2 weeks already. 3 of us have accidentally called it "home" this week. The hotel has a deal for guests to work out and swim for free at the local Y. There is a continental breakfast prepared every morning. Housekeeping ensures we're well stocked. And every Tuesday supper is catered. Night before last, they sent us up with all the BBQ leftovers!
In an unpublished blog after Christmas, I wrote how I tired of holiday dip, sausage, and pie. I suppose when we leave here, I can say the same of sandwich meat and microwave meals, but probably not of morning cinnamon rolls! The stash of juice, milk, crackers, granola, fruit, and vegetables creates balance. Another balance we've achieved has come from the "forced" time in close quarters. Miranda reminded me this morning how much it's like the weeks we spent in the truck with Mike when she was young.
The things I've sought but have been just out of reach are found here. The children have to manage to respect each other in these 2 rooms we're residing in, since I'm within earshot of every encounter. Teaching has been easy since there are few distractions. Madalynn is swimming well without her life jacket; Michael has begun weight training; McKala is walking and running on the treadmill in spite of the asthma; and Mike's been walking some distance on his healing leg.
Right now I'm sitting next to the "room" Macklynn's made with chairs, coffee tables, cushions, pillows, and blankets. It reminds me more of the barricades of "Les Miserables" than the place he's prepared for us all to convene for Jello at 10 pm. Tomorrow night Madalynn will reinvent it for us to sit by the great window as the winter precipitation falls and she serves popcorn and hot chocolate!
As content as I truly am with the circumstances, it reminds me of just how much a vagabond in this "world" that I am. And "rightly so". If I had it my way many years ago, I'd have every detail of my life "just so": matching beyond matching wardrobes; symmetrical bliss of interior and exterior decorating; overbooked, overachieving, likely morally numb children; and, of course, all on a budget to die for on a course to a perfect retirement. I wouldn't have seen in any real sense that "this world is not my home". I might've caved to what is readily accepted in this chaotic culture.
I might never have known that my children need to learn how to serve, lived out daily. I might never have understood that a spanking done properly enough to remember is far less punishment than the suffering life will put on an undisciplined adult. ( Even though a parent should do everything not to bruise, even "nature" presents itself in bruising so that we never want to "try that again".) I might never have comprehended that blessing and cursing can't arise from the same fountain, might never had winced at the words that come so naturely to the public at large now. I might never have discovered that children learn more from what is incidental and relative than what is planned, that quality time can't be created in a slot. I might never have searched for sexuality that is beautiful, shameless, and perfect in God's pretense. I might never have been shocked that our daughters suffered many workplace harrassments for standing firm. I might never have seen that young people who have no way to support themselves have no business dating, learning well how to divorce. I might never have questioned why people think that living together, lying to each other, and cheating the system are acceptable. I might never have spoken against lyrics of music I enjoy. I might never have seen disaster as divinely permitted.
I surely would never have learned that dying to myself is the whole purpose of living. I surely wouldn't have been privy to the nuasances, the subtlety that the serpent has used to desensitize, to blind throngs of people. I surely would not know an ounce of grace without a Jesus who visits me with it.
"Handling" grace is maybe the hardest thing I've done. It's much like a scalpel trying to divide the cancer away from the healthy flesh. In addressing sin, inevitably something's going to hurt, someone's going to get hurt. In stepping away from traditions of the community and politically correctness, I've seen each member of our family go through an unnamed process. It's a time of awakening to how bad things really have gotten, a time of disdain and disgust, a great temptation to remain self righteous. We prove the sincerity of The Faith when we choose to step back in, reenter the game ...but with renewed boldness and purpose with unreasonable amounts of grace, with unexplicable behaviour and answers, except that they be from an almighty merciful God.
If it means that I have to habitate in a hotel room to be kept on my toes for God's will, then "so be it". The mold that makes McKala sick was found AND the church that's alluded us was found, so ...as far as I'm concerned, this stay was "meant to be".
