Socks

I'm easily frustrated, you know, and it's the stupid, little stuff that gets me every time.

Baby Chip's sock situation had been frustrating me for awhile. He'd outgrown most of his socks, and to find a pair that fit required a lot of digging and unballing and trying on. Ain't nobody got time for that, but I shouldn't have grumbled; I can't recollect having ever bought Chip a pair of socks.

Chip's socks (and the rest of his and my other children's clothing for that matter) have always just sort of shown up. We're blessed. We have kind and generous friends. I've filled in the gaps at thrift stores and yard sales, and I've had a complete blast dressing my kids; it's all good.

Kyndra had crammed Chip's dresser drawers right before Christmas, and he had but one unfulfilled clothing need: socks. The pesky socks.

So, yesterday, Rachel gave me a bunch of clothes for Chip. "2T," she said, "for him to grow into," and I almost just crammed the bags into a closet without looking, but something stopped me, and I looked.

Clothes to grow into, sure enough, except for a ton of 12-month socks.

I didn't hesitate; without attempting to sort, I emptied Chip's drawer of all socks and replaced them with the ones from Rachel. And you might think: yeah, yeah, happy coincidence, but I felt it.

I felt God looking down and saying: "I see all your struggles and frustrations, and I care about them. I see you. I care about you." And He does. Of course He does.