Sometimes life is irreparably dreary. I fall into a pattern of mundane that feels like a belly flop into quicksand. It looks something like this:
Go to work–do boring tasks–come home and make dinner–go to sleep. Throw in a little refereeing of misbehaved children for good measure, a larger-than-necessary dose of chocolate(or ice cream) for my nerves, and that’s my life in a nutshell.
On Saturday I get a break to do fun things like laundry and cleaning(Okay, I don’t actually clean, but thinking about cleaning definitely causes stress and has contributed to the pinched nerve in my neck). On Sunday I go to church and attempt to rest. That usually looks like making muffins and bread for my family for the week. If I am lucky, I sit down and watch the birds fight over sunflower seeds and laugh at the piggy squirrels. I’ll admit, I’m easily amused.
However, my case of dreariness is particularly troubling this year. January has hit me like a ton of bricks. I struggle to climb out of bed. I fight for every positive thought. I lay in bed in the morning and grieve getting up. I want the cycle to stop, but the dryer is stuck and I just keep rolling around and it feels like all the fibers in my being are shrieking and shrinking.
This past weekend found me fighting like mad to break out of this tenacious cycle. I was very excited because my family planned to get together on Saturday for our delayed Christmas celebration. This big deal event was moved because our beloved grandmother had been recuperating after a breaking her leg while drop kicking another soccer player for giving her the stink-eye after a particularly bold play that produced the winning goal(this sounds much better than she fell, but I digress). I knew a snow storm was coming, but it wasn’t predicted to hit until late in the afternoon. And since it was a balmy 42 degrees outside, I layered up, pulled out my trusty Jamis(a snazzy blue and white hybrid bicycle), and prepared to find some adventure. I had a few misgivings when I saw it had begun to sprinkle but I refused to be deterred. I had enough layers to keep me warm and my new Andrew Peterson lp, The Burning Edge of Dawn, as my soundtrack. I zoomed down the first hill(okay I actually inched down with the brakes clenched because the road was slick and I was terrified) and then began the slow ascent up the next. I was hopeful that I would find a bald eagle or a blue heron or some other fantastic creature, and I was happy to break out of my gloomy rut. I was also excited to burn off the calories I was going to eat later by way of my Aunt Mickey’s famous Peanut Butter Pie.
About a third of the way through my ride, I noticed the rain was growing steadily harder. Still, I pressed on because that is what adventurous people do. I figured it would take a while for the cold liquid to work its way through the warm layers of my active wear and so I felt that as long as I kept moving, I would be okay. About half way through my ride I began to feel icy puddles in the bottom of my shoes. That’s when I knew was I in trouble. And then the freezing rain began to needle my face. That made me downright crabby. So much for my peaceful adventure. I went from warm and toasty to cold and soggy faster than you can say misery. So it was more than a little ironic as I pedaled and groaned and listened to the song, “The Rain Keeps Falling” as I splashed through puddle after muddy puddle.
I contemplated calling my husband to come and rescue me, but that meant stopping and stopping meant giving up and I was decidedly not done with my adventure. And right around that time I had the most incredible thought, “I am riding my bike in the freezing rain. I have totally lost my mind.”
I made it home just in time for the rain to transition to (hamster sized) snow flakes. I stood there sopping wet, my fingers numb, my toes like cold sausage links, and my heart filled with awe as the snow swirled around my head. I would have danced but I could barely move I was so cold. So I lugged my big old body up the stairs and slid into a hot bath and sighed. I had earned every bite of the two pieces of pie I planned to eat later that afternoon. So I closed my eyes and dreamed about chocolate graham cracker crust and melty peanut butter filling and just smiled and smiled. No more mundane. No more misery. Only bliss!
And then I got a text message, “Christmas is cancelled. The roads are just too bad.”
And I swear the walls just dissolved around me and I felt the cold in my bones. The lyrics to Andrew Peterson’s song echoed around the chambers of my hollow heart.
“I tried to be brave but I hid in the dark. I sat in that cave and I prayed for a spark to light up all the pain that remained in my heart and the rain kept falling.”
Sometimes that’s exactly how it feels. No matter how hard I try, all of my attempts at an epic adventure get rained out and then I don’t get pie(or a hug from my feisty grandma).
I sat at my kitchen table and sipped my hot tea and watched the piggy squirrels. And it didn’t make me happy. And my children were buzzing around the house like hornets–stinging each other with their words and wrassling like misplaced WWE wrestlers and I might have shouted at them to shut up. I don’t remember.
I’ve said it before, but its worth repeating, our response to adversity matters. Festering over disappointment is not productive, nor does it remove the disappointment. So I made a conscious decision to stop my fester because it wasn’t doing me or anybody else any good. I bundled up my rambunctious children, pulled out the sleds, and watched them slosh in the snow and mud for an hour. And honestly, it was wonderful watching my beautiful, healthy little boys frolicking like new born deer, kicking and scrambling and flying down the hill in the back yard only to crash into the hole I dug while trying to rid my yard of all the rocks. And the only reason I made them come inside was because they used up all the snow and the sled wasn’t working in the mud, and they were soaked and caked and needed to be hosed down. The funny thing is, by that time, I wasn’t worried about laundry or baths or muddy footprints in the house, I just had this peaceful feeling that was born out of gratitude for the stinky little lovelies that brighten my home with their laughter and cries for hot chocolate.
“My daughter and I put the seeds in the dirt, and every day now we’ve been watching the earth. For a sign that this death will give way to a birth and the rain keeps falling.
Down on the soil where the sorrow is laid, and the secret of life is igniting the grave and I’m dying to live but I’m learning to wait and the rain is falling.”
This morning I didn’t want to get out of bed. I stared at the alarm clock and grieved. I considered the tasks before me and all of the challenges I didn’t want to face. And then I pulled one foot out from under the covers, placed it on the floor, and followed it with the other. Because sometimes courage is as simple as putting one foot in front of the other. It’s pressing forward when we don’t feel like it and searching for joy in unexpected places. It’s choosing to live when we feel like we are dying inside and choosing to hope when disappointment rains all over our best laid plans. Today wasn’t perfect, but it wasn’t awful either. To be honest, I did find joy. And I plan on finding it tomorrow too–one footstep at a time.
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