Nasty Gravy and the Ugly Cry

Today I got up extra early to sear a roast, slice up potatoes and carrots, and get it all in the oven so it could cook while we were at church. Well, all of that went very well. I was even ready before Preacher Man, which NEVER happens. So we attended church, which for me is crazy hectic since I work in the preschool area and people believe that we don't ACTUALLY need adults to volunteer to keep the children. They really just take care of themselves. [dripping with sarcasm] Anyway, so we made it through church and then had to wait for 45 min after the service while Preacher Man counseled because my husband speaks three languages and is extremely dedicated to what he does [not a bad thing unless you have a roast in the oven]. By the time we left I was a little grumpy/sad. Partly because our pastor told a story about dancing with his little girl, which made me miss my Daddy/cry [who is still alive but lives far away from me] and partly because Preacher Man is so dern dedicated to his job. Preacher Man, however, was in a rather yippy skippy mood and chatted my ears off all the way home. This equaled me being more grumpy.

So, we got home and the house smelled delicious and I thought, "Okay, maybe it didn't burn. Maybe it's a miracle." I opened the oven and pulled out the pot...wrong. Okay, well it didn't exactly burn but there were no more juices left and the potatoes and carrots were stuck to the bottom. You just know looking at such a scene that the roast itself is going to be somewhat lacking. So, I tried to SCRAPE some of the drippings off of the bottom of the pan and combine it with a little flour water in an effort to make some sort of gravy. In order to cover the burnt taste, I had to add A LOT of flour water. So it turned out tasting mostly just like flour. So then I had to add a lot of salt, pepper, and garlic powder, which made it taste like seasoned flour.

As I was doing all of this, I burnt my left thumb on the lid of the pot because I somehow forgot that it was in the oven for 3 hours. "Shit" is what I said. But it wasn't a bad burn, just enough to make me even more grumpy. [Stir, stir, stir] Preacher Man entered and started making the broccoli. I grabbed the handle of the pot with my right hand...same hot pot. Same burn but on my right thumb this time and significantly more painful. "Shit. Shit. Shit. SHIIIIITTT!" is what I yelled this time, holding my burning thumbs up in the air. Then my face got all squinched up and I started to cry. Ugly cry, that is. Still holding my thumbs in the air. Like a double thumbs up. Preacher Man just stood there hugging me...I mean really, what else could he do? I dried it up after a while, ran my thumbs under cold water, and finished the nasty gravy. Preacher Man fixed the rice and the broccoli and we ate our below average roast dinner in silence.

In case you have ever wondered if any one else has these kinds of days.

Back to Louisiana

"Well, how was your trip home?"

I've gotten that a lot this week - because I went back to Louisiana for my little sister's wedding. The thing is, that's a difficult question to answer. Here's the best I've come up with, "Oh, ya know, it was good. Typical family stuff. I love 'em. I would literally lay in front of a bus for any one of 'em. But honestly, some days they make me WANT to lay in front of a bus [mostly just kidding about that]. But it was good [smiley, rambly me says as I nod my head]."

It turns out that going back "home" after creating my own "home" with Preacher Man is tricky business. Things just aren't quite the same. I built this trip up in my head. It was going to be filled with laughter and ease and lounging by the pool in the evenings. With afternoon tea and light hearted sarcasm and plenty of dancing. Well as a result of the intense wedding planning that was happening, there was only some laughter, not much ease, and no lounging due to the stampede of mosquitos that happened at sunset. There was afternoon tea, not-so-lighthearted sarcasm and well, there was still dancing...we maintained the most important things.

In the end, though, my sister got married. And she was beautiful. I cried. It all changes when you get married. There is a shift in the family dynamic. God made it that way but when your original family is as great as ours, it's hard not to mourn the shift.

My sister got married and I got a taste of my old "home". And actually missed my new "home". The one that happens with Preacher Man and Belle. And it was good. Really good all around because good, bad, or ugly - my family is mine. And I will take you down if you hurt them. And although transitions are not my favorite things, God walks with me through them in such a way that I find myself enjoying the newness before I even realize it. And THAT is one of the many reasons why He is DA MAN!

The Grey T

I step out into the thick air and just stop to breathe it in. I glance around at the familiar surroundings - the old tree house that I've never set foot in because my family didn't move here until I was in college. Looking at that tree house now, I kinda wish I had seen the inside of it. I make a mental note: Check out the tree house later. The tapping of my blue tennis shoes on the driveway mingled with the sounds of the dead end by our house - birds chirping, the wind casually moving through the trees, cars distantly speeding down Jackson Street - fill me up like a breath of Spring air after a long stint in a dark closet. I reach down to touch my toes, slowly, letting my body get ready for the run, letting my thoughts drift to no place in particular. It's been so long since I have released my notions, giving them freedom to roam and roll and stretch. I can do that here, where I always feel safe and comfortable.

I take a sharp right out of the driveway, walking to the next turn, letting my legs get used to the movement. At the corner, I begin to jog. I decided to leave my iPod behind today - just to be alone with my thoughts and the streets that are sprinkled and even scarred with the memories of my childhood. I can't help but notice again, as I do every time I travel down this street, that it is the dwelling place of cats and kids. That's what I call it - the cats and kids street. It all makes me smile. The cats. The kids. The way I have named it my own name.

I begin to think about why my heart feels so full, so at rest when I am here. In the town I grew up in. I'm not the same me I was when I lived here. I'm a new me with parts of the old me still lingering and implanted but even the new me loves to be here. Somehow my thoughts drift or tiptoe or lumber, to the t-shirt I'm wearing. How it's old and soft and my favorite of all the t-shirts in the world. In true favorite old t-shirt form, it hugs me in all of the right places and floats freely in all of the right places. When I wear it I feel perfectly, simultaneously comfortable and confident. That's sort of what's it's like running down these streets. Seeing all of the old homes we lived in [we moved a lot but always stayed in the same neighborhood]. Like slipping into my oldest, most favorite t-shirt. Comfortable and confident - I don't feel both of those things at the same time anywhere else in the world. And here, today I get to slip into that old gray T [both physically and metaphorically] and run until my mind doesn't feel so cluttered and clogged anymore.

In my thoughts, I am running down this street away from a barking dog. My little sister is jumping on my back, nearly tackling me to the ground. We are both screaming and laughing in a terrified sort of way. I begin to laugh out loud. I have to slow to a walk for a little while - laughing and running are not good partners. I catch my breath as I reach the back street. Beside the field. And I have to stop for just a moment to admire the field. It's not really anything special, but it's my field. Well mine and my sister's and my brother's, too. And we grew up in the city so this was the closest thing to the great, wide countryside we ever tasted. And we felt like great explorers in that field with the river [which was actually just a drainage ditch] and the forest [which was actually just a cluster of trees that had not yet been cleared out to make more room for developments] and the wildflowers and tall grasses [which were real]. And standing there, I want so desperately to recapture some of the magic that made us believe. Made us dream. Made us hope so unabashedly.

I begin to run again, this time harder and faster, hoping to completely clear my mind of all thought. I run and run and run, begging my brain to stop. And after a while it does, and I feel free of all that apprehension and anger and hopelessness that I am plagued with most of the time. And as I round the corner and make my way back home, I realize that I am exhausted, but that after all that fighting [which is essentially what all the running was], I feel like I have reclaimed a little bit of hope. And with that a hope, a little of my ability to dream. And I think that maybe I'll start to believe again - believe that dreams really can come true. The new me steps in and makes note that they can but they don't always, and the old me feels okay with that. And the new me and the old me shake hands. They don't hug yet but maybe someday they will. And someday maybe, just maybe, I'll learn to intermingle and intertwine the me's in such a way that there is no difference between the two. Maybe someday. But today this is enough.

I tap back up the driveway in my blue tennis shoes and climb up into the tree house I've never seen the inside of. Because it looks like it was probably built for catching your breath and possibly even for dreaming big.