Precious

As if mail delivery wasn't hard enough.

So it’s melty over here. 

That’s not a term folks like Cliff Mass use but it’s accurate.  Our snowpocalypse is now officially a slushpocalypse and frankly the population at large is a bit frayed.  Never before have people looked so happy to be out in the grocery stores and some were even seen singing in bank lineups.  For those hit worst by the storm, Friday was the first day it was possible for some to leave their cul-de-sacs and even then prayers were raised as slush and ice forced tires into arbitrary and bizarre lanes that scared many drivers.  If you are one of the many who live where snow is a season not an event, you are doubtless beyond wondering what our problem is and why Seattle deems itself so flipping news-worthy for what was a fairly normal snowfall.   

I think it’s because we are so darn precious.

It was midway through the second week when I started to feel like my precious family was too much of a good thing.  Running the dryer filled with soggy hats and scarves had become a daily occurrence and I even moved a bath mat to the foyer to deal with all the excess moisture coming in the front door.  Hanging up coats was part of my morning routine and I was having trouble discerning the difference between the socks and gloves that littered the hallway.  My children had given up speaking with each other and picked of the maddening habit of answering one another in musical numbers.  If one more child sang one more line of Evan Hansen, I was going to pitch them outside and let them be found in spring.  My hubby was no better, his musical responses were based off Moana and if the sea called to him again I was willing to make the arrangements to see how far he would go.  It was a time of feeling constrained which doesn’t happen frequently in our climate.   

Precious is the word that comes to the fore when things go wrong for communities.  In times of need people are capable of doing the most amazing and kind things.  Then there are the stupid things people do which can be relatively precious as well, if you are inclined to give folks a lot of grace and remember your own less stellar moments. Mine came when I decided to walk my daughter through a neighborhood field to her friend’s.  It was only a mile, but a mile in knee deep snow with no sidewalks was a new experience for both of us.  It would have been a delightful outing if I had the correct footwear.  However, my boots had been taken by different children, leaving me to try to figure out what to wear to make our epic trek.  Salvation came in the form of a pair of boots a friend had purchased for the end of the year drama production.  This pair was a steal for $5.  They looked great and if one overlooked the fact the treads on the soles had been worn off entirely, then you would agree you had a great pair of stage boots. 

Imagine my ingenuity then, when I decided these boots would be “just fine” for walking to our friends’ house.  To counteract the slippery-as-death soles I grabbed my beach walking stick, to help me navigate.  The results were about as disastrous as you could imagine.  To start, I live on a significant hill.  Secondly, our hill had iced over and was topped with 6 inches of compact snow, giving it the "descent of death" vibe for those dumb enough to venture out in sub par foot wear.  I realized it wasn’t going well when I made it to the tire tracks in the road and started to descend the hill without actually moving.  I was sliding down the hill without the ability to stop, which impressed my little, who decided to help by shouting which way I should be pushing off the walking stick, aka "rudder”, to miss landing in a snow bank.  It didn’t much work.  The entire trek was laced with momentary pauses wherein I would be vertical one moment, then completely horizontal the next, looking into the white grey sky while snowflakes landed on my lashes.  Every time I landed with a surreal “whump” in the soft snow, my child would say, “Um, are you going to get up soon?”   It wasn’t my finest hour, 105 minutes actually, but who’s counting?

The mailmen in my area had precious moments as well.  In the first wave of the snowpocalypse we had a Postman who came down the hill in his van with chains.  Though I didn’t witness it, I found him on our sidewalk/front yard having lost a chain during his ascent.  “Do you need a shovel?” I called, coming out of the house to check on the hummingbird feeder.  “Oh no, I’m fine thank you! I just lost the rear chain; I’ve got it back on now.” He called out confidently.  Secretly, I was a bit worried for him; I have observed that chains can give drivers a false sense of security around hills.  When he reached the top of the road I heard him spinning out but he managed somehow because he wasn’t outside when I ventured out for a walk half an hour later.   My suspicions were proved true however when, 20 minutes later, I rounded a corner and found the same Postie who had just sideswiped some mailboxes.  At that moment, 5 men were trying to maneuver his van out of the ditch.  It was an epic moment, man against snow against ditch against the postal service; the epitome of an extreme survival documentary. I didn’t stay to watch however, as it wasn’t a place for a woman; kind of like in the old days when only men attended boxing matches.  There was a limit to the number of bad ideas I could stomach in a day.    

So on Friday when I saw a large postal truck coming down our hill, I groaned in despair.  “What is he doing?” I asked no one in particular, as he roared down the hill.  “This is not going to end well.”  

“But there is some bare concrete out there Mum and it looks like he has chains,” my eldest replied looking out the window.  “I remain unconvinced.” I replied.

I have mentioned that I live on a hill but I have not confessed is that my home occupies a very specific location on this inclined plane.  Khan Academy has great videos explaining “the components of the force due to gravity that are parallel and perpendicular to the surface of an inclined plane.”  I can’t understand these videos at all but I do know I live at the exact spot on the hill that gravity asserts itself in an undeniable way and cars blow their engines while their drivers attempt to deny the existence of physics and Khan Academy videos. 

I live where cars die.

Which is why I can recognize the sound of a postal truck in distress.  Putting on my boots with fantastic traction, I sauntered down the hill to the stranded postal worker.  “Bless your heart.  You are stuck.”  (Bless, then state the obvious, I think I read that in a Christian bestseller.)  “I know.” He was a few years my junior and still feeling upbeat.  “I saw the pavement and thought I could make it.”

“Your first mistake good sir, this hill is known for its siren song.  The pavement calls out but it really wants to kill you.  Were you just feeling brave?”

“We have so much mail." He groaned. " We are so behind in our deliveries, I woke up this morning and thought, ‘Today I’m gonna try get it done.’” He swung his arm in an atta-boy motion to prove his initial enthusiasm.

“And now the universe is punishing you?” I queried.

“Exactly.”

“Would you like a shovel?  I’m not sure if it will help, but I have one handy.”

“That would be great.”

And with that, Mr. Mailman walked up the hill and borrowed the shovel from my front step. We chatted about the snowpocalyse some more and he set off down the hill to dig himself out.  Fifteen minutes later I heard the familiar whine of sliding wheels followed by silence.  When I next stuck my head out the door, I saw two cars behind the postman and a little group gathering.  I ventured back outside to check on everyone’s well being.  When I arrived my immediate concern was for Mr. Postman who looked like he was going to have a heart attack.  Everyone else looked healthy and was filled with helpful suggestions.  There was a small woman with 4 wheel drive (her truck had 4 wheel drive, not her) who clearly wanted Mr. Postman to get out of her way.  Mr. Postman would have liked nothing more than to disappear, which is probably why he went back into the truck and tromped on the gas once more and managed to rip the chains clear off the back right wheel.  That was a fairly low point for all of us.  About then, a fellow named Larry showed up with half a bag of cat litter.  I thought this was and entirely awesome offering to a Post office funded community event.  Larry, not deterred by his humble offering, spread it under the wheels and encouraged Mr. Postman to try again.  Mr. Postman complied and the van actually moved about a foot, which is why Mr. Postman got excited, floored his vehicle and ended up blowing the remaining chain and wrapping it around the back left axle.   The van made a horrible banging noise, shuddered and Postman cut the engine. Larry lamented not having a full bag of cat litter and the passing of his cat which left him at a deficit on numerous levels.

“I think,” said our friend Mr. Postman (because by now we were all friends), “I’m gonna have to call this in.”  We agreed this was the sensible thing to do and offered our congratulations for a solid attempt at problem solving.  People took turns chatting with Mr. Postman while he awaiting the tow truck which came about an hour later.  It was pretty near the most exciting thing that had happened in two weeks on our street. 

It was precious.

And so I am thinking of you my friend as you wait before the Lord for solutions and answers to your many needs.  I know you have “called it in,” praying, waiting and hoping for something to change.  You are waiting for this trial to be over, so that you might get moving again.  I wanted to remind you that you are precious.  Precious when you fall, precious when you try and precious when all you can do is wait.  I’m praying that you might be encouraged by the care that is around you even when it proves not to hold the answer.  Waiting for the Lord is not wasted time for those who believe. 

Praying you have the grace to endure.

xoxKaren

Snowpocalypse

It’s the snowpocalypse.

People are doing some weird things around here. Myself included, which is how I found awake at 6:30 tip toeing around my home in an attempt to make a pre-dawn run to the store.  Because I didn’t want to turn on the light, my make-up routine was a reverse color by number affair where I removed make-up from places it shouldn’t be.  I removed excess eyeliner from underneath my eyes, leaving enough behind to look as if I had some on.  I didn’t apply any fresh make up you understand, as my pride doesn’t wake up until at least 7:30.   I was worried about losing power due to an ominous weather forecast.  My solution was to go to the hardware store at 6:30 am looking for fire logs.  Last time we dipped into the teen temperatures was a couple of years ago when my furnace died.  For twelve days our family huddled together in an epic blanket fort while our home plummeted into the low 40’s.  It was then I learned the joys of a fireplace in order to stay warm.  Our family has filed that experience under Polar Vortex from Hell 2017 but we won’t go there right now.  Right now we are on the snowpocalypse.

Back to the Hardware store.

Traditionally, women do not go to building supply stores at 6:30 am: call me sexist if you like but it’s true.  Except for the very nice blond lady with unusual glasses behind the till, there was nary a female in sight.  But there I was, in my sweat pants, my daughter’s knee high boots and homemade hat looking frightfully unstylish as men in overalls, with shaved heads and unshaved faces marched to and fro as if they knew what they were doing; which they did.  My pattern of movement followed that of a Roomba, wandering aimlessly bumping into objects while looking intentional: which I wasn’t.  Mostly I was lost.  I walked up to the nearest employee and asked if he had any fire logs.  He looked at me and grunted in the direction of the front door.  “All we have left is out there.”  “Thank you,” I sang back, because I thought he was rude and headed for the front door.  Looking at the sad display of logs I decided against buying any.  They were the type that generally put out my fires instead of starting them.  Do you know the kind?  They aren’t covered in paper that you can light.  They are made from an incombustible form of saw dust.  I suspect they were invented by a troll that hates humans. 

I made my way back to the almost empty parking lot.  My next stop was the grocery store and I knew that was going to be unpleasant.  People in my part of the world seem to do two things before a cultural or weather event: they either shop for meat or barbeque meat.  As I didn’t expect anyone was firing up their bbq’s at 7:00 am I figured I would meet them at Fred’s.  Pulling into the parking lot, I checked my list and steeled my nerve.   “Batteries, lighters, fire logs…” reciting the list to myself I dashed for the warmth of the store as a goth looking 20 something unlocked the front door.  Resuming my Roomba reconnaissance pattern, I aimed for the outdoors section.  A teenage-ish looking fellow crossed my path somewhere near the discount table filled with vile smelling candles no one was stupid enough to pay full price for (since when did candles become $10.00 I ask you?).  “Fire logs! Do you have any left?” I didn’t bother saying good morning to him because it felt like we both already understood it wasn’t.  “You know…” he looked heavenward “we found 4 boxes hiding in the back late last night.”  He paused again as if recalling a time long passed, “I know they put them out but I don’t know where.  They might be gone though.” 

“Any idea what area exactly?” I prompted him in the way I thought his mother might.

“Well…out on the floor sort of that way I think.”  My young scholar pointed to the entire store.  I had a few words with his mother in my head before I responded. “Thank you.” I sang and walked off before I said anything I’d regret.

I checked all the displays in the isles gathering items as I went but was unable to find the elusive fire logs.  I wasn’t surprised.  It was (after all) the snowpocalypse; by the end of the day many of the stores in the area would have empty shelves.  Changing my wandering to a more efficient isle-by-isle pattern, I quickly side stepped shoppers as more people entered the store.  It was approaching 7:30 and my pride was pointing out that my attire was as ridiculous as my make-up job.  In truth I was losing focus, the lines at the checkout were starting and the pace was getting hectic.  For reasons I can’t explain I bought 2 containers of ice cream and a package of hot dogs.  Why?  No clue. It was time to leave, if I didn’t have it, we could do without.  Marching toward the check-out I saw a little man walk by with a green box of fire logs on his shoulder.  “You have logs!” I screamed at the startled fellow.  “Where did you get them?” I lowered my voice and smiled trying to look more normal.  He looked at me warily, “They are down this way.”  “Excellent!” I shouted enthusiastically.  “I’m following you!”  He looked at me as if to say something and then thought the better of it.  Nodding his head he started marching toward a display.  “There.” He pointed to 3 boxes under a table and ran away quickly before I made any more unreasonable demands.  “Thank you!” I sang because it was what I did.  Two boxes of logs were loaded into my cart; the fourth would make someone very happy.

It took forever to get checked out of the store but I didn’t mind.  A toasty fire was mine to be had and the thought warmed me all the way home.  My phone quacked as I parked my car at the top of the street.  The text read where are you? My family had discovered I was missing as I walked in the door and dumped grocery bags on the floor.  “Mum? Is that ice cream?  You never buy ice cream.”  “Quiet,” I scolded, “go put on the kettle.”

As I write this, the 3^rd round of the snowpocalypse has just finished. I’m sitting in front of my wee fireplace, someone is making hot chocolate on my now functioning stove and I’m feeling blessed.  You’d never know that a few hours ago I was on the phone sobbing to a friend.  She was trying to put me back together as I discussed a troubling situation.  I was not convinced God was inclined to help me given the amount of time he was taking to answer my prayers.  How is it possible to feel so cared for one moment and so neglected the next? Feelings are unreliable in an emotional storm.

I wanted to remind you if you are in a place of waiting; God hears you.  He cares for you.  Storms can be difficult to bear and it is easy to feel alone.  I’m praying your faith might be strengthened to see the ways in which He is answering your prayers.  I like to think of them as God’s fingerprints touching things you never expected. Hopefully, in seeing his care you might be able to comprehend that his heart is for you.  By seeing his little blessings you might be able to trust him with the bigger more frightening issues.    

I’m praying for you this week,

Practice thanksgiving and stay warm.

xoxKaren