So today I opened up two containers of oatmeal that were the leftovers from two different days. I put them in a pot and added some water to help reconstitute them from their solid state to a less solid, easier to stir state. Then I chopped up some apples really fine and I added them to the pot. I rarely think to do this when I’m making oatmeal from scratch because I’ll get the water boiling and then walk away. Since I’m just reviving oatmeal I have to be in the kitchen the whole time so I remember the apples.

Next, I add some cinnamon to the oatmeal. Adding cinnamon at this point is very important in our house. Two or three of the young lads have very sensitive skin and will break out in an unattractive rash if raw cinnamon gets on their faces. So it must be cooked in, but I don’t normally make the oatmeal around here and peoples often forget.

Now, I take a small, unmarked jar from the fridge. The jar is full of a dark, thick, syrup looking liquid. It’s a good thing the liquid looks like this because it is actually syrup. Homemade apple and cinnamon syrup, to be exact. Since it was a reward for my helping some friends make scads of applesauce it’s only fair then that I’m the only one who remembers it’s there and could be used. So I put appley-cinnamony syrup in the oatmeal and stir, stir, stir.

It’s really yummy. It’s like a tiny, tiny instance of creativity and redemption. I take two containers of unappetizing globs that are taking up space in the fridge and I make them into something good and enjoyable. They become appetizing and then they become breakfast. And apart from the apples, the cinnamon and the apple-cinnamon syrup it’s reusing leftovers. That’s why I’m thankful for leftover oatmeal.

But Crystal, dear Crystal, has started getting beer. There is a Wednesday night beer stash at our house. We aren’t suppose to get into it on other days except for emergencies which means that there is always beer on Wednesday night. Last night Crystal broke out the beer and we each had one. By the time I was done with mine my muscles had calmed down and my mind had slowed to a sleepy crawl. I climbed into bed and quickly fell asleep.

So today I am thankful for beer. For all different kinds of beer and ale from Guinness to Killian’s. For God’s love to us demonstrated in the creation of beer I give thanks.

So I drew up Epiguy who has exacidoptysis (spitting out acid) and anamyomegaly (excessive enlargement of the muscles) and other like conditions. After a week of finding medical descriptions somewhat upsetting, I sat there coloring in a superhero and I thought, “I like crayons. This is fun. Why don’t I do this more often?”

It reminded me of Ana in Stranger Than Fiction who quit law school to save the world with cookies. And as the girl who spent large portions of childhood recreationally reading the Medical Book and the Doctor’s Guide to Home Remedies, I’m now having a bit of identity crisis…

Today I am thankful for errands. For an excuse to be outside in the colors and the sunshine. For the chance to be out of the house and juggling numbers in my head. For trade-in credit at the used book store and Naked Fruit smoothies on sale. Even for the postal worker who thinks I’m a moron and aching feet. For my day today and next week and the week after that I give thanks.

I recently wrote my very first short story. According to standards I read on the Internet (insert snarky Internet comment here) what I’ve written previously would be called flash fiction or short shorts according to word count. I wanted to shoot for something longer so I aimed for 7000 words which is the most liberal requirement for a short story. I wrote it, I posted it, I danced around, I was very excited. Working towards a bigger goal made me slow down and give the story more space to grow and breathe. It gave me more space to get you, the reader, to understand my character and his situation. It gave me more time to yell at him because he wasn’t doing what I wanted him to.

He’s my character, right? I made him, I named him, I figured out what he looked like and how he talked. He’s my creation; I should be able to tell him what to do. I should be able to steer him onto the path I want. For crying out loud, the words that described his sorry life came out of my head. I should have had a big say in his life. But after I made him and figured him out he just went his own way.

He decided his reactions to the obstacles I put in his way. He, Adam, decided what to shoot for and what to settle for. He decided when to give up and what that looked like. I was so mad at him because he was being so stupid about everything. He was sulking and pouting and hating his life and there was nothing I could do about it.

I had something good planned for him, too. Not necessarily what he’d been working for, but something really, really good. At the end of the story he would be happy. He could have been happy in the beginning and middle, too, if he hadn’t been being such a moron. I had a great plan all lined up for him if I could only get him to do what I wanted.

There was one thing I could do about it. I could completely rewrite him and force him to do what I wanted him to, but then he wouldn’t be Adam anymore. I would have broken him to get him to stop being stupid which is kinda what I did to him through the stuff that happens in the story. But he had to work through his struggles as Adam in order to arrive at a good place and still be Adam. To tell the story I wanted I had to let him be himself, stupidity and all, while I guided him through to the end. I wonder if that frustration is a bit like what it feels like for God.

(Here’s where the possibility of heresy comes in. Just hear me out, okay?)

God makes us. He decides what we look like and what our situations will be. And then He watches while we totally screw up our lives. We wallow in our mistakes and get up only to make new mistakes. Our decisions hurt everyone around us and ruin the story. There’s something good waiting for us at the end, or the middle or the beginning, but we’re so bull-headed we have to slog all the way to the end to get it.

God made us, right? We’re His creations, His characters in His story and He really should be able to make us bend to His will. He should be able to dictate our every move. Which isn’t to say that He is unable; it’s just to say that I kinda understand why He doesn’t sometimes. There are times that bending us will actually break us. We are too stiff and too stubborn to just bend. So sometimes He leaves us like that for a while. He lets us wallow in our self-pity when our story doesn’t go how we’re wanting it to. But sometimes He decides that we are going to bend. So He breaks us a little to makes us more bendable in the end. Who we are gets changed a bit so that who we are will bend to the will of our Author.

I didn’t do that to Adam because I’m just writing a piece of fiction and Adam’s stupidity made it that much more interesting. God is writing history. Sometimes our stupidity makes His story more interesting, but other times the next act of His story involves us learning to bend.

It must be so frustrating. I had a something good ready for Adam when he would just pull it together enough to want it. I was practically yelling at my computer screen, trying to get Adam to stop wallowing and enjoy what I had ready for him. Imagine being God. He has the best, the finest, the most perfect waiting for us. It’s beyond my powers of description to write about what our Author has in the works. If we would just stop being morons long enough to want it, to accept it. It makes me even more impressed with His patience. The Author is writing a story that will take all of time to finish and He’s chosen us poor fools as His characters. We’re what He has to work with to make a masterpiece. He picked us special and is going to write a classic with us.

I’ve got no fears that He’ll end up with the story He wanted all along. He’s the Master, the Great Storyteller. He’s got all the time in the world and all the words He needs to write up one great wonder of a story.

I have three job titles that I use. I describe myself as a full-time aunt, a stay-at-home aunt or, if I’m feeling really snooty, a personal assistant to a mother of six. Okay, I’ve only used that last one in jest, but it sounds really good, doesn’t it? There’s a lot that goes into this job no matter what name it goes by so I wrote up a list of jobs that fall under my title. Some of these are snarky, some are silly, some are completely serious. When I figure out which is which maybe I’ll let you know. So, without further ado, I present my resume.

My Resume

Courier
Chauffeur
Action Figure Surgeon
Water Carrier
Sandwich Technician
Sleuth
Shoelace Technician
Teacher/Instructor of
-Science
-Math
-Reading
-History
-Baby Growth and Development
-Housekeeping Skills
-Storytelling
-Life
Jungle Gym
Spit Rag
Music Critic
Art Critic
Film Critic
Literary Critic
Literary Advisor
Dr. Seuss Specialist
Dietitian
Assistant Piano Instructor
Laundry Specialist
Author
Story Teller
Chef
Baker
Actor
Director
Comedian
Compost Specialist
Investigator/Judge and Jury
Library Guide
Caterer
and last, but not least,
First grown up awake on Sunday mornings and usually in a good mood

So, Tuesday I went out shopping. It’s my official errand day where I run around like a crazy person doing grocery shopping for myself and some for Crystal. It was going well and I was feeling happy. I’d bought some yummy food for this week, I’d gotten ice cream for Isaac’s upcoming birthday, I was out of the house. It was a good day. Then I bumped into a lady from our previous church who I hadn’t seen in forever. She’s a total sweetheart so I actually said hey when I noticed her and was glad I did cause she was thrilled to see me. I asked how she was then I asked about the young women at the church who are a bit younger than I am, one of whom is her daughter. So she told me all about her daughter’s life- how she’s married, how she’s got several home businesses using her creativity and artistic skills, how she’s happy as a clam. Then she told me about the other young woman who is getting married in May and so very happy. She even told me about a young woman who’d come after we left. I have never met this person, but I know that she is attending New St. Andrew’s college in Moscow, Idaho, (you know, Doug Wilson’s college) and that she loves it there. Then, this total sweetheart who would never want to hurt my feelings said, “And how are you? What have you been up to?”

My brain completely froze up. Here she is talking about women who are younger than I am and using their gifts and skills and loving it. I get thrown up on on a regular basis. I get up each day and try to corral children through the day without going insane or letting the house fall down. What’s more, I’ve been doing that for five years now. What do I have to show for it? I asked myself. And then listened to the echoes when no answer came.

I managed to stumble through the rest of the conversation. I told her about writing, I told her about teaching. I tried not to sound like the total loser I am on paper. And then we said goodbye and I walked off into a gray day with a new voice in my head. It whispered to me about how much I am worth and how important my days are. It whispered to me about my days and weeks and years and I listened, God forgive me, I listened.

I didn’t realize how much the conversation bothered me until I got home and started talking to Crystal. She had some very helpful things to say which I tried so hard not to blow off. I was talking about it again last night with the Wednesday Night Dinner crowd and again I was shocked at how bothered I’d been. Especially since I know the right answers. Theresa was pushing me on it and I was laying out for her what I believe about what I’m doing and why. I laid it all out and it looked so good, but still there was the voice. I couldn’t listen to myself explain myself to me because that voice was talking talking talking.

There was no way I could make it stop on my own so I told it to go to Hell and asked to God make it leave. It’s been a better day so far.

One of the helpful things Crystal said was that I should write a resume. I could make it as silly or serious as I wanted, but that it might be helpful just to list everything I do. I’ve been working on it and so far it’s a pretty long list. On the list are several things that are what I love. I’m a writer and a teacher. That’s what I want. I work with children which is the perfect fit for me. So why does it matter that nobody’s hired me for the job, that I didn’t have to go and spend lots of money on getting a piece of paper that says I can do it? What difference does it make that I’m here and not someplace else doing what I love? I’m teaching children how to read and about their world and about the history of their people. I’ve taught them about plants and about their bodies and about animals. I’ve written stories that have been just what someone needed even if sometimes that someone is me. I’m doing what I want, what I love. This is exactly what I want I just do it here at home. Why isn’t that worth anything?

The answer is it’s worth a whole lot; I’ve just been listening to a liar this week. When I’m done with the resume I’ll probably post it here, though that’s not really the point. It’s more of the exercise of paying attention and noticing my place here so that I have something to tell the liar when it tries to come back.

After washing dishes, folding my laundry, getting my Reformation Day dress in the dryer with some home drycleaning solution, getting the two children who don’t go to speech and debate class settled in with a movie and starting the dishwasher again, I decided to try to get back to my (lately overlooked) habit of setting goals for the upcoming month. Usually this involves trying to read a non-fiction book every month, trying to make progress on a specific writing project, and finishing a craft project, especially if it involves learning a new technique.

This November I decided to my goals are to finish reading The Hidden Art of Homemaking (which I’m already halfway through) and to finish one Christmas present project (it’s mostly done, but it does have some fiddly bits to finish that will require attention). Oh, and to finish reading Winnie The Pooh, and make sure I write something at least twice a week, even if it’s really short.

These seem like wimpy goals, so I went ahead and wrote down the other things I’m already trying to do: follow through on cleaning up the kitchen every night like I’m supposed to, and instead of putting it off if it’s a crazy evening, plan ahead for that and get it done *beforehand*; keep my room clean now it’s nicely reorganized and I’ve (just about) actually found a place to keep everything; keep up with my Medical Terminology class work; and make some attempt to start exercising again. Throw in the fact that Theresa’s having a baby in November, we’re putting on a baptismal feast, and also have a regularly scheduled holiday (Night of the Burning Plum) and I’m trying to decide what to do about my reccuring cyst problem, and my live is seriously crazy, even if it is a quiet ‘laundry and dishes’ sort of crazy. Maybe ‘reading Winnie the Pooh’ isn’t such a wimpy goal after all.