The re-entry of a space shuttle is not to be entered into lightly. It is then most vulnerable to damage from atmospheric friction. Vital parts can fall off, the trajectory can be too steep, the re-entry point can be missed. It is even possible that the shuttle will be reduced to flying cinders. At best the shuttle is scathed with scars, paint wears off, and pretty soon it looks like an old woman needing a facelift.
I am afraid that my vacation re-entry from family farm harvest is just like a space shuttle’s. My psyche has been through that process almost every year since I was a little shaver (twenty-two), because my family has regularly immersed itself into farm life every summer from two to four weeks.
I used to enthusiastically jump back into real life, getting boys ready for school, easing into my own part time job, weeding the summer’s detritus, restocking the pantry. But gradually, under the radar, that ability to sail my way through the change in life style has gone, strayed, lost, ‘tis feared. (Do you know “The Three Little Kittens”?)
This summer I fell to the bottom of the pit. Most decidedly I did not want to come back; neither did I want to stay on vacation. I decided I actually wanted a purgatory of sorts, a respite care center without the care, an out-of-time cabin in the woods. But what I wanted and what I got were two different things.
I got a fifteen-item list (I counted), a pile of phone calls and emails (though I had never been without my iPad and cell phone while away). Then there were two big decisions about my fall commitments to make, tomatoes and summer squash to somehow preserve, groceries to buy, appointments to manage, and most of all, my inner self to scrabble together.
It was not pleasant. My husband would agree most emphatically, if I allowed him space to comment. And this morning, to crown it all, my ten-sentence devotion told me to wait on the Lord BEFORE I do anything. I would do less but it would turn out to be more. Too late: I had already charged into my list and then fussed and fumed inside because my husband took MY praying space, fussed and fumed because….
No one needs to listen and wait on the Lord more than me. He promises to hang on, so I must too, by His grace.