Sunday, June 9, 2013

The fire and the rain.

I'm wondering if I can borrow a cup of inner peace.
I seem to be all out.
Symptoms include walking around in a daze, not realizing that you were actually speaking to me just now, and general frustration, irritability and restlessness.
I could blame the animals.
(That's terrible, though, to blame a chick who died or a cat that got hit by a car.)
It might be more fair to just sort of generally blame the two-plus weeks of chaos that landed atop our house -- everything happening in threes and all that.
It was a lot.
And it shook us, all of us.
I can tell every day that we're still just a bit off.
It's the little things that make a life -- it's bedtime stories and snacks, and French toast breakfasts and getting the library books back on time.
And those things aren't happening with the regularity of normal yet.

It's the fire pit.
My family brought home a fire pit for Mother's Day, along with marshmallows, graham crackers and chocolate bars. We planned a Mother's Day cook-out followed by s'mores-making, but then our chick got hurt and died, and we had a funeral instead for a bird we had known just six short weeks. Three of us spent Mother's Day night crying and drinking tea while my husband got stitches from trying to save a baby bird named Cinnamon.
It was sad, and it rocked our whole family, and it seemed to start something, some dark cloud that hung out a little too close to our house for a few weeks. We fought infections and pneumonia and allergic reactions, and then our sweet cat snuck out, just when things felt kind of normal again, and she was hit by a car.
She is doing well -- incredibly well. People say things like, "I feel like I got hit by a car," and let me tell you, getting hit by a car shows, but she was lucky enough to survive, and we are lucky enough to get to care for her, even if that means a little extra time these days.
And so, there's been stuff, and we never did get around to those marshmallows (we cooked some on the stove, but come on -- who you fooling?)
And then finally -- tonight was the night -- the kids helped build a fire as I finished dinner, and just as we sat down to eat the rain started.
Owen's face fell, and I tried, as I've been trying for weeks now to muster the right words to encourage a kid who has been dealing with some junk.
"Well, maybe we can make stove-top s'mores tonight, and we'll save the fire for tomorrow," I said, trying to be reassuring. "It can't rain forever, right?"
And that's when it hit me.
It can't rain forever.
There's just no way. At some point, things always shift. The sun comes out again, and everything dries up and gets green, and you get a break, you know? A breather. Even if the rain starts up again, you get a glimpse of something good and sometimes, that's all it really takes to start rebuilding your spirit; to find some peace again.

The rain stopped tonight for just a few minutes. We made s'mores, and Owen danced, he was so happy.
"We never could have done this at our old house," he said, and suddenly, a day spent doing some hard work came into perspective.
We've taken some big steps in the past year -- in many ways they have been leaps of faith. Maybe we knew all along that the rain had to stop sometime, and that that's when you get to lift your face up to the sky, and remember to be grateful.


  1. Hugs to your family! It's the rain that makes us appreciate the good stuff. Like chocolate and marshmallows. We've been rooting for your kitty. Sorry to hear about your chick :( -Tab

  2. I just stumbled across your blog clicking around Simple Homeschool, and now I've read every last word! I just love your relaxed, open writing style. Hope you feel the rain break soon.

  3. Thanks to you both. It's been sunny and beautiful here the past couple of days -- in both ways!