The Keys, Pt. 2

Picture me looking through the shoe bucket, the camera bag, for my keys. I'm looking under the table, the couch cushions, Cade's bed. I'm searching pockets and diaper bags and my little girls' purses. I'm digging through the clothes I bagged up for my neighbor.

I'm moving from house to minivan to house to minivan; the kids are buckled and waiting in the minivan.

I'm calling my husband at work and my thirteen-year-old at his other house: "Did you happen to see...?" I'm forcing myself to remain calm and kind. I'm texting my girlfriend with the new baby: "I can't find my keys. I'll drive over as soon as Jim gets home, if not before. Please pray."

Can you see me leaning against the counter, talking aloud to God? "What am I supposed to be learning?" I ask Him. "And why am I supposed to be learning it?" I feel so defeated, so hurt. I'm trying to feed people, for crying out loud.

((I recall other humbling experiences in delivering food: running over a free-standing basketball goal, dropping off the wrong (half-eaten) box of brownies.))

Jim pulls in at the same time as half our small group. He helps me transfer (most of) my stuff from the minivan to his truck. I take his keys and Baby Chip but leave the girls with their dad. I forget the baby gift. I shake my head as I drive east, passing my friends' road by accident. I turn around, shaking my head some more.

But when I take Baby Aubrie in my arms, she looks straight at me, and I remember again the miracle: how the doctor recommended a D & C because the pregnancy didn't appear to be viable. But she's here, praise the Lord, and she's beautiful, praise the Lord, and doctors don't know everything, praise the Lord. "I'll love you all my life," I gush tearfully to Baby Aubrie,"because I prayed so hard for you to get here."

Next stop: Cade's other family's, and I set down the food (barely warm, now) and tell my ex-husband, his wife, and our young man about all the events of the day. We laugh and laugh.

A few minutes later, I'm barreling down our driveway when here comes Uncle Rob from small group. We wind down our windows. "Where are you going?" I ask.

"Look, I hate to tell you," he says, "but Baby Hurley just struck at your house," and he proceeds to tell me how his son just projectile vomited. If I thought we were good friends before (having scrubbed my toilet in front of him), I'll be pleased to know, he says, smiling: we're even closer, now, because he just cleaned my entire bathroom.

"You know what this is, right, Uncle Rob?" I ask him.

"The devil?" he guesses.

"Spiritual warfare," I tell him, and back at the house, I enter the tail-end of a deep discussion over God's Word. I have wet spots on (and crushed up Cheez-Its in) my carpet, and the kids run amok until the end, but the newest member of our group bends over, hugs me, and says: "I'm so glad to be in small group with you guys."

Later, I stare toward the ceiling and pray. What does it all mean, Lord? I ask. Speak to my heart! And where are my keys? Show me! Give me a little something! Just a little something!

Crickets.

From small group, last night.

(To Be Continued...)