I’m like a child whose parents made them transfer schools the week before their senior prom. I am dramatic and have kicked and screamed (quite literally) for the past 5 months. I’ve been plucked from comfortable and cushy to isolation and grasping for normal.
I am not home.
I knew going into this relocation that God was preparing me for some solitude to rely on His sovereignty instead of a quick phone call to a girlfriend or a Chick Fil A meet up to pass the time. All my safety measures and things that gave the illusion of control are gone. I’m left in 2,629 square feet of counter space and hardwoods to dwell on just how crap this is. I’m surrounded by physical beauty and yet remain so very bitter.
At home I had a schedule. I had quiet time. I home schooled my child (sometimes). I had Mom’s Night Out. I served in the church. I wasn’t even just checking the boxes-I was full on loving Jesus.
My optimism ebbs and flows and my childlike response to having no one but the Lord to talk to and invest in truly at times makes me angry. Like, I’m yelling at the Lord that I just need REAL friends. Human friends. Who get my humor and will entertain my kids so I can binge watch Parenthood. Friends who like my cookies and understand the sass that comes from a four year old. I’m yelling up and down that God got this all wrong and if I could just move home then I could re-strengthen my Jesus roots.
See, if God would just listen to me things would be all good. Because I’d have homies. Homies who like sweet things. And salty things. And sweet and salty things TOGETHER.
Because those are my people.
Because I know better.
Because I tend to think I am God.
(And lets all come together with an “Amen” that I am not.)
My prayer has been for God to just make Himself ever abundantly real to me. That my doubts would subside and my days wouldn’t be filled with mindless monotony and overspending at Target. I’m getting in the way of that.
So here we are, trying to make this place home. Chris is all “but it is home because we’re all together.” So insightful and drama free, he is. And then there’s me with my hysterical sobs because I’m missing out on post-prom and a corsage stuck at home with frumpy ‘ol mom and dad in the form of my preschooler and husband who are content to just watch movies on the big TV with surround sound while I wallow in self pity and hide away reading “The Ragamuffin Gospel” (highly recommend, yo.)
The parks here are not yet our parks. We don’t have our date spot. We’re lacking community and I’m focusing in on all the things I don’t have. That’s what Negative Nancy’s like myself do. They get stuck in a pessimistic rut and try to spa day and cheese board date night themselves into being thankful. There is no joy-and I’ve been OK with that. I’ve accepted this new “Everything is NOT awesome, everything is only cool when you’re part of a team” way about me that is so counter intuitive to everything I am and stand for that it’s MADDENING to watch myself whither away into an angry ball of yuck.
See, what I’ve realized (but not begun to change because I want to be mad for just a little while longer) is that all of this is just sin and gross and I’m a very selfish person. My desire for community is Biblical-my ongoing anger about my circumstances is not. Even my cold brew latte- with sweetened condensed milk, mind you- just gives me a cup to pour my sorrows into and continue my Woe Is Me season.
It’s all good, though. If there’s anything I learned in recovery it’s that it starts with one step, so here goes.
My name is Elizabeth, and I am discontent. I am angry. And I don’t like it.
I’ll start digging out of that rut now. My tantrum’s lasted long enough.