I'm sitting in our new little apartment/guesthouse writing this, feeling a huge sense of accomplishment and relief, because this move has been a bit of a killer. Mainly because we decided/offered/madly signed ourselves up to paint this place before moving in.
Did it need it? Desperately.
Am I glad we did it? Our cozy yellow walls answer that question.
Did it last several weeks and make us exhausted and take up all our evenings? Yes.
So, we're here. I'm sitting in a place of God's provision, painted by His grace, and it's good. God's gifts are good. Even when the kitchen is a bit small and I can't walk around without tripping on things right now.
But man, I am really glad it's done. That we're living here. Because moving does scary things to me. When we move, Rachel disappears and in her place is this crazy huge monster, swinging sharp claws and baring razor teeth.
Actually, that's not even really true. Because I don't disappear. The person who is scary and ugly is ME. And that's scariest and ugliest of all. All the sin that I try to so hard to stuff down into my crevices, to keep down there by plugging up the holes and swallowing quickly when it starts to crawl up my throat...it melts, begins to ooze, and then gains speeds and starts to shoot out of me. And pretty soon the creature who is me is running alongside the Devil instead of away from him.
Let's just say I'm glad you were spared this. And I'm sorry my husband wasn't.
All this is because moving takes everything I love, which is control, and turns it into everything I don't love, which is chaos. I am control freak. And when I don't know where things are, when things are exploding into and out of boxes, when my husband isn't moving according to my schedule, when it's mad hot and a tool box almost falls on my foot, you see who I really am. I think I have life under control, but I have nothing together. I can't even control my own SIN! I am needy in the worst sort of way.
Today I'm amazed by the Gospel once again. Last night, Adrian and I ate our first dinner in our new house, and as we sat talking about the Catechism question we're working through, we were reminded by the gift of a Redeemer. There is only ONE Redeemer. Everyone else claims to point you to the Way. Jesus is the Way. Everyone else claims to show you the way to save yourself. Jesus saves.
And I really can't help but think of Lewis and Tolkien who knew that in a lot of ways, the Gospel story doesn't make sense to those who don't get stories-- who haven't felt desperate by an inevitable doom and amazed by the happy ending. Wonder. The Gospel also doesn't make sense unless we know it's the TRUE story. The story that happened here, where we walk on the dead grass and feel the water mist our faces. Here where we run to Target and paint our houses. Jesus came. God Himself stepped down into the world and said, "You're desperate; I'm here to save you." Story of stories.
It's a good day, folks. I am out of control and I've got a Savior beyond belief. I weep.
