On Monday, I took Charleigh to her pediatrician, whose diagnosis was croup and ear infection. So we've spent most of the week at home, which does not a happy Gonnigan make.
Neither does a child's biting someone; lying to her mom; pulling hair; standing on the kitchen table; scaling the steps; throwing toys; sucking on a light bulb; pulling an upholstery tack out of furniture; sticking her finger into the blue water in the toilet brush holder and licking said finger; smacking her mom; pulling weather stripping out of a window; breaking a tv; or regressing in terms of "making stinky" on the potty.
And one of the wee sisters did each of these things, this week. I'm chalking part of it up to Charleigh's being hopped up on steroids. Yes, we further childproofed against that monkey. Yes, we disciplined one or both sisters when appropriate.
I had great moments. I had, also, some straight-up Miss Hannigan moments. Not so much the drunk ones as the yelling ones. Gonnigan to Hannigan can occur in a flash; trust me.
Last night, Jim met us in town for dinner. Then we switched vehicles, and he headed home, taking Thing 1 and Thing 2 with him.
I had the nicest little break. Everywhere I went, bargains jumped off the racks and shelves. At Good Will, I bought the most beautiful piece of fabric for $2. At Sears, I bought the perfect sweater for half price. At Barnes and Noble (where I had a 25% coupon), I stood at the shelf looking for one thing when my eye caught another: a book I'd almost purchased from Amazon at one point. I pulled it off the shelf, read the back, and thought: this man's words would probably really help me. So I bought the book. At Kroger, I discovered and bought Metromint, which I hadn't enjoyed since Jim had a case delivered, last Christmas.
I was putting my groceries in the back of Jim's minivan when my friend Beth pulled up behind me. Think of it: late last night, on my first blogiversary, the very person who inspired me to blog appeared in the Kroger parking lot. We had the best conversation, and I shared some things I can almost never share face-to-face...or at all...with someone I love: someone who loves me, someone who shines out Jesus.
Later, at home, I unstapled and unfolded the fabric I'd bought at Good Will, and Jim helped me hold it up to a window in the dining room. As it turns out, there's just enough for an appropriately-gathered valance for each of the four windows in that room.
I share the details of my break in order to say this: I could talk about luck, good fortune, coincidence, serendipity, or fortuitousness. I could. But, instead, I want to say: I credit all of it to a Heavenly Father who wants to delight me...and who wants to delight you, just the same.
I believe He cares about my wanting to--on a dime--wear a rainbow-colored sweater and dress my dining-room windows in lime green with a vintage, floral pattern. I believe He cares about my weary mommy moments: about my frustration with my children, about my frustration with myself. I believe He hears me crying out in prayer meeting, also as I cook spaghetti and scrub scrambled eggs out of a (supposedly?) nonstick skillet. I believe He sees me climbing into my husband's lap and waking our older daughter at midnight to weep apologies for yelling. I believe He honors my longing to know Him, to learn of Him, and to weave words that Honor Him.
Can you see Him, waving His arms like a conductor, commanding--with His hands--angels and men? Can you see all of life--including your life, mine--as part of a symphony? The upbeats, the down-, the timing, the volume?
He cues the Metromint. He cues Beth Stoddard, Pastor of Creative Arts: sends her driving through the grocery-store parking lot.
He wants to delight us; He does. I'm delighted. Are you?
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